The sun is dull today, grey clouds and a cold, cold rain.
Thrushes scatter from tree to tree…scolding me. Witch hazel fades to orange, then red. Oak leaves are starved skeletons and thistles appear as brittle, brown tubes.
The spring with its wild water, waiting for movement. It’ll run all the way to the river in winter. Now, I follow its small pools, footprints along blackish stone.
I see a little blunt of blue poke through the clouds, bright tips of silver, frame dark billows. Moving, always moving.
I relinquish. Dig my hands deep within cotton pockets, nuzzle a soft scarf.
|Elan Mudrow on Ghost Story For The Wilderness…|
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|Elan Mudrow on Footprints|
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