There's something about certain old trees that only feels like an old friend.
I walk bent over, a slow, shambling pace, that takes me deeper into the forest, deeper into trance. The forest has that effect on me; I'm willing to bet ti would have that effect on you, too. A basket in one hand, my other sweeps the ground, picking a flower here, three more there. At every sound, I stop, look. A patch of just the right blossoms catches my eye and, so, I walk further off the trail.
The stand of young Poplars has just begun to bud. They're the reason I've come out here. For the past month I've been gauging their progress, trekking out here every few days. But it will be another week before I can begin that harvest. I am patient. I can wait.
Throwing the Bones
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