Tuesday, 31

I walk. The forest around me is stationery yet in a constant breath of motion that shows its singular flicks of life in the colors of green that arc through the spiral rainbow that my vision is while I am here. As the sky above me clouds I discover my timing is such that making it back home in time to stay dry is an imaginable way of spending ones energy, in its stead I remove my shoes and close my eyes for a moment to take in the soft lichen and pine carpet that the trees around drop for me in this peace I have come to adore. I begin to walk again along the roots of an elm tree and run my fingers along the ridges of her bark. I feel her breath coming with the movement of the remaining emerald speckles on the ground that the leaves careless glow has left in an elegant pattern that every tailor has tried to mimic since before the people of common wealth could afford fabric of color.