Ode to the Forest - HW Andrews
The rotting log drips, Drips drips drips, like it's full of water. Above the canopy, the sky is white and gray and sometimes the palest blue. Where is the water? I hear its steady wooshing below in the river that mirrors the color of the sky. I see green and shiny and firm Oregon grape leaves and they sparkle with water. The forest floor, all soft and crunching gently as I walk, is damp, the fallen twigs limp and moist. The forest smells like water, or snow, or the inside of the hydrangea bush where I used to hide as a kid. I see the trees and ferns moving subtly slowly as if they are trying to keep still but can't help moving for the joy of it. I imagine that they are meditating together, swaying with the rhythm of water that streams between them. (writing for an environmental education project for which I was a test subject)
The rotting log drips, Drips drips drips, like it's full of water. Above the canopy, the sky is white and gray and sometimes the palest blue. Where is the water? I hear its steady wooshing below in the river that mirrors the color of the sky. I see green and shiny and firm Oregon grape leaves and they sparkle with water. The forest floor, all soft and crunching gently as I walk, is damp, the fallen twigs limp and moist. The forest smells like water, or snow, or the inside of the hydrangea bush where I used to hide as a kid. I see the trees and ferns moving subtly slowly as if they are trying to keep still but can't help moving for the joy of it. I imagine that they are meditating together, swaying with the rhythm of water that streams between them. (writing for an environmental education project for which I was a test subject)
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