” The trees that are slow to grow, bear the best fruit”   – Molière

As I sit in front of my window, watching the rain and wind rip through the trees, I think of the days when I can wander through the forest again.  How the sun will shine through the leaves, like streaking, lighted arrows, aimed for the ground.  Mist arising, swirling from the canopy in floating haze, as leaves disappear in and out. It will be as if a magician, waving a wand, only has allowed small glimpses at the time.  To see the larger picture, we need to explore.

It will be quiet amongst the trees.  And then suddenly, a bird will sing… a Winter Wren, trilling throughout the woods, echoing music against the trees.  The forest shall feel like an ancient theatrical stage of awe and wonderment, and yet inspire comfort, possibility and surprise.

So as I sit and watch the fierce storms tear at the world outside, I hope the rain, falling so fiercely, will sate the thirst of our forests again.  I hope the wind will only cut shallowly into the bark, blowing dead limbs to the ground and shake off the dust.  And perhaps, maybe, possibly, conceivably… the storm will reawaken us in time to see how wonderful our trees really are.



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