Winding Through Ferns
The trail you walk curves through a landscape of ferns. You
can see the thin line of bare earth cut gently through the plants and disappear
over a rise. They seem ancient. So ancient that you think that’s probably how
they looked millions of years ago after having settled from the ambulations of
a dinosaur. The air is rich and moist and when you inhale through your nose it
feels like you are participating in the forest’s essence, taking it deep within
you and savoring it. The enormous trees rise from their bed of ferns like
stately pillars charged with upholding the sky. The canopy is thick with
billions of slender green needles, each a variation on an ancient form, shaped
to gather fog so that the tree might drink. Your steps are silent on the spongy
ground and it’s almost like you’re not even there, passing through the play of
light and shadow, swaying around you on the dictates of cloud and wind. You
feel part of the ecology of this place, aware of everything without having to
focus on any of the details. This land has found a home in you and you smile as
your legs take you, you know not where and this does not matter because each
step you take is one into your heart and from this you will never stray.
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