The Texture of Mud

I like the texture of mud

I like the way new leaves growing in look like a mint-colored haze over the autumn leaves of last year

I like putting my full hand on the trunk of a tree, closing my eyes, and tracing her wrinkles with my fingertips

I like trying to count how many different bird songs are contributing to the choral medley

I like the purling of the stream under the singing, like an orchestra seated below the stage

I like taking close-up photos of all the tiny varieties of moss and finding the most flattering angle for the tree-side mushrooms

I like going to examine a shapely leaf and noticing a squirrel higher up, eating a blossom

I like finding spider webs still glistening with diamond-colored dew drops

I like leaving the trail to more closely study oddities in the trees, like large hallows or curious bark

I like the contrast of emerald green to russet to cinnamon to pale yellow and then to pastel green again

I like damp tree stumps and dried pale-gold leaves still clinging on, as if hoping – post-winter – to uncurl and make a come-back

I like trying to capture the elegance of each blade of grass in a photo no one will ever see

I like walking so slowly through the trail that I’m unsure if I’ll make my way back before dark

I like when the entrance is marked by one solitary flowering tree, as if saying, “You may find magic here, but only if you keep your eyes sharp and your gait

               Forgetful.”