Perhaps in the woodlands I should stop “toying with words”. There aren’t enough words – the right words – for the colors and textures woven here by the rain. My attempts to label them become noise – static – and the birds here echo my chatter.
Which moss is “moss” green? Root moss, cushion moss, or the moss on the trunks? Is it right to speak of emerald ferns – when emeralds are ancient, heat-born, and unyielding? Is it fair to say that the woodpecker’s snag is dotted with jade?
The rain won’t allow the woods to be labeled and it streaks the old trunks as I watch. I see patterns – and then I see none. And the hardwoods yield, splintering softly.
soft summer rain –
a woodpecker’s labor
lost on the sparrows