The forest sings, a welcoming rush of leafed notes, spun water. It is not the bird chorus that echoes in the trees, the air is still and heavy, muffled beneath the light. No, it is the forest music I hear, as the strands of sleep claim all but earth, all but the pitted bark and winter worn leaves. I walk and the sound of earth rustles in the corners of my thoughts. It furrows and crackles while the scent of water is a filament of dream, a remembrance weaving wet flowers with the fragrance of unfurling aspen leaves, too new even to tremble. I press my face into them, into the soft smooth edges, into this birth that feels too supple, too clean for me to know it as birth. While all around the music of the forest is encompassing, a song for that one moment, fleeting. That even though my very heart stops to listen, my eyes weep for its passing.
