At The Bottom Of My Ink Well

The Memory Of Trees

Behind my eyelids, there lies a whispering aspen grove in the crisp white mist of an autumn sunrise. Crystalline pearls of dew adorn the curled icy fronds of lady fern and scatter like diamonds in the morning grass. A mockingbird preens his soft grey feathers on a cold naked bough, melting with the muted hues of a sleeping forest. His song cuts sharply through the crisp mountain air, trembling through hoarfrost flowers blooming on a mother log, and rushing into the playful splash of a quiet stream.

Just there, where a holly bush covets an old cedar stump, comes the dainty step of a young doe. Softly through frozen loam she pads, the litter of fall rusting slightly beneath her tread as she  leaves the cover of tree line for the crisp grass in a sleepy meadow.

The sun rises slowly from an eastern peak, bathing the wood in a soft rosy…

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