Spring is when the things of the forest grow.
Branches of green buds spread across a backdrop of storm clouds, swaying in a phantom breeze. Deep yellow crocuses poke out of the dark forest bed, stretching out as though escaping whatever lies below. I’m always careful not to step on them, their scent is not easily shaken off.
The dogwoods offer up their cream-white flowers, mimicking the lucky clovers with their petals of four. I often pause to look at them. After a rainfall their petals become the darkest shade of white. They hold a melancholy I could never quite understand.
Birds call out from the branches overhead, though I don’t ever spot them. They sing crisp notes into the silent air, and I swear it’s what makes the branches sway. I never follow the sound, their song is not meant for me.
I am not afraid.
The forest knows me, it seems to have accepted me as one of its wild things. There is always its desire to keep me, but also an understanding of the freedom all wild creatures need. Still, I never linger in one spot for long. I do not wish to become rooted to the forest floor.
The plants around me rustle every now and again with whatever lives in this place. I’ve stopped jumping at the sound, they are just curious. I wonder what they think of me.
I don’t go after the noises I hear. I don’t follow the beetles that scutter into the underbrush. I leave if a chill works up my spine. I am not afraid, but I am wary.
The forest is where the wild things stay, and I am only a guest. Not everything that grows should be seen, and there are some things that are better left alone.
The air smells of rain and soil, and the birds are singing overhead. Spring has settled into the forest. It is beautiful, it is haunting, it is alive.
If you go, keep alert. Watch, listen, but do not follow. You must be always careful when things of the forest grow.