They say that "April Showers bring May Flowers," drill it into the turkey-palmed hands of school children, using the daughters of the Ocean falling home to our mother the mountains and giving life to the buds who'd be broken-hearted and broken-stemmed without her. We use them to teach the apples of our eyes, our next generations the heart-learned lessons of patience, that behind the twilight lurks a dawn.
Dandelion greens exude bitterness upon their first emersions. They get even more so the later in the season. I eat them anyways, make sure to chew. At least the flowers should make some decent wine soon. No one cares how bitter or sour wine is.
I sat for a while in my favorite White Pine, looking down.
It's a strange thing, how poor our species is at looking up. Perhaps we were made to play Kings and Queens of the forests, to sit in trees and do our best to emulate our Creator looking down at the created, no matter how feeble the attempt from our not-so-comparatively-high vantages.
Or maybe the opposite holds true. Maybe our race was meant to be underground, the way that we evolved. Maybe we're bad at looking up because there was no point; reverting our gazes up beyond the walls stained with ink and blood was simple darkness.
Yet the billowing sunset fabrics of the gloamings in an empty parking lot manage to capture our precious intentions to make us contemplate vastness.
From my vantage in my Pine I broke dead branches, both accidental and purposeful, and tossed them to the forest floor below. Pruning the dry but not yet festering dead to leave room for the Land of the Living. On a ridge below and across, boys ran by on all fours like salamanders.
Eastern Redback Salamanders (ERBs) don't have lungs. They absorb oxygen and moisture through their skin. It sounds nice, to be able to freely breathe in and out without boxing yourself in. To be able to sigh in relief with your whole body. It's all I've ever really wanted.
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