Usnea; a connection to barefooted childhood. Found growing in quiet, clean spaces close to water; a soft bed for fae.
I revel in these quiet spaces; listening for the sounds that go ignored in the idle reverb of everyday, savoring the places where the noise of airplanes is offensive.
Where the loudest sound is on the wings of the hawks; the forest holding its breathe until the bird of prey has passed.
The wind blows and the trees come alive to sing – yes, they are often laughing at us; we need to find their strength to laugh with them.
When the wind is still and the leaves that have shaken loose fall to the forest floor with a crack. The loudest and maybe the last sound a single leaf will ever make.