Half past sunrise.
The woodland mist around my house dissipates.
Damp dirt, pine, and wildflower fragrance tease my nose.
A light breeze brushes my face and the underbrush rustles.
Are forest dwellers changing shifts?
Or dryads winding down their overnight play?
A lone mourning dove sings its sorrow.
I close my eyes and contemplate my mountain home.
Gentleness and wildness,
hospitality and hostility,
mythology and reality
all meld together.
I yearn to capture this moment, keep it forever.
But I can only create a memory.
I sip my strong espresso.
Something stings my ankle. I set down my cup, swipe the culprit away, and scratch. It flies into my coffee.
I lift my camera, scan the bush through its lens.
I snap my photos and muse:
Can treetops touch the sky?