In these woods where I am small, I watch breath rise and fall in these pines of a hundred years or more from pine cones, skyward moving slow. I watch rain running down craggy bark, soaking softly the moss and flowers below.
In the summer sun of heat, I lose myself complete in the fragrant warmth of pinewood air. The moss - yellow, green in waves, it hangs wispy from the trees
Here where evening brings the birds and breezes quivering, the wind shakes the forest trees, deep and echoing the ravens woods speak to thee.