Orange canoe leaves and castling roots and a potpourri of rocks and twigs and mosses hailed my pathway. Fresh, white flowers mingled with their rusted sisters upon the ground, like copper-splashed jasper. The canoe leaves curled as the white and rusted flowers tumbled through them like toppled teacups and feathered, Victorian party hats. Their christened sisters mirrored them among the boughs above and talked loftily about the treetops as the fallen ones chattered amidst ******* and the roots dividing the tables of their tea party— unaware, and heedless, of how far they’d fallen.