She admires the trees, not knowing how young they are.
Gone are the old souls, but she doesn’t know that, the stories she’ll never hear.
She takes a leash off her dog, he runs in the clearing, the meadow once there has vanished and the grass in the park will never turn to a summer’s golden brown.
The pond is peaceful, always is, always will be.
Still, there’s an essence, buried deep in her face, a look of recognition, a wilderness imagined.
The dog runs up to her, flustered, happy, drooling.
She handles a phone.
Snaps a picture of him under young trees, places the leash back upon his neck.