how the forest breathed

Felt good to be back in the forest, watching the trees breathe. Watching wind make the edges of leaves flutter. Watching the sky. Clouds passing overhead. Fuzzy and thin. Thick and looking like you could reach out and touch your hand. Run it against smoothness. Like a wave of your hand would make rain form from cloud condensation.

It was a still day other than the soft winds. Animals, birds, plants were uncommonly quiet. So quiet it felt like you could hear the smallest thing. Maybe roots stretching out. Maybe a flower bud opening. Maybe the footstep of a bee. You could hear yourself blink as you closed your ears. And everything inside was quiet.

Ground was soft and sank underfoot. It was cool, damp, but in places of sunlight, felt so warm, like it was part of your own body. It felt good to stand on. It had a texture. Crumbly and at the same time felt bouyant, squishy. You could bounce off of it into the air. Except that each step sank to a deeply defined footstep. they etched their way across the forest. Like a beautiful sculpture. Artisticly weaving their a path through sacred spots that were so tiny few stopped to notice. Each little hidden spot was special and each gave a gift along the way. 

The forest was feeling very simple that day. It was unassuming and within that was something that felt very strong, but witnessing it was also very beautiful. 

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