Language of the forest

In the overgrown silence of the creek bed a story is always waiting if you know hot to read the language. Look closely, observe, listen, and feel. Some stories are as bold as the tell tale finger prints of a foraging raccoon indenting the loamy mud. Others are more subtle like the first foreshadowing of autumn drifting down the current on the veins of a yellowing maple leaf.

Some stories are as sober as the empty mussel shells left eaten on the river bank, while others as ambivalent as an acorn waiting for the next flood's serendipity. Still other stories laugh out loud like the squeaks of leopard frogs flying headlong from the overgrown banks, or gossip like the chatter of warblers dancing on overhead branches.

Just walk outside somewhere, anywhere and open a book. Turn a page.