Moody, misty forest. Fog-laden and lush green.
Birdsong softly echoing amongst the trees, the leaves soaking in the mist and clinging to branches. They are not ready to fall. They cling to a place of comfort and height. At its height, the summer months grow moodier, and feel more atmospheric. Tell tale signs of autumn begin with colder breezes. The evenings bring them first. Some leaves cannot hang on any more, and they have already faded to a golden colour. The depth of their understanding is that they are essential to every season, but in different ways. Winter would be too harsh for the trees if not for the leaves layered protection on the roots. Blankets are important when the snow comes. Even trees need blankets.
High above the soft mossy grass with an earth-toned colour are the dwelling places amongst the trees where the memories of ancient people live, keeping the story of the place ever-flowing. the story of the space interweaves with time. It began in ancient times before the land was deep. Centuries of story and pages of tales formed this land. Every page has been important. Poetic words jotted down in scribbles are the cascading tales flow forth. It would not be where it is if it were not for such pages.
(written on a scrap of paper, and tucked in my tote bag for a few weeks)
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