| The rain falls softly on the forest’s bare bones and on the remnants of last season’s snow, now reduced to melting piles, where winter’s mighty drifts once stood.
The mist mutes my footfalls but I amble on, deeper into the wood, under this dripping, tangled mass of branching timber, that in a month’s time will erupt into a splendid canopy.
And this Vermont springtime woodland, this temple to nature’s potentiality of action, poised, but not yet quite released, provokes the soul to abstract reflection . |