Slender stems cast long shadows in the western wood as late-winter sun begins its setting.
Lifeless leaves, bronzed by the beams of February's final hours, set the stage for a flickering show of shades, cavorting in the chilly breeze upon the forest floor.
Amidst the flickering shadows, a hundred dozen golden pixies dance among living leaves of purple and green, born anew from death and damp and decay.
Carnival of blooms, a miniature Mardi Gras, Mystic Krewe of Erythronium, the floral avant-garde, heralding the resurrection and the life that are Spring.
Diminutive dancers, timeless testament to the tenacity of life.
A performance repeated a thousand thousand times, here in the silent wood;
a mere four dozen cycles coincident with the one called mine.
Too many I've missed.
What moved me here, on just this day, at just this hour?
A dance; and too, a song, or perhaps a prayer...
"For the beauty of each hour,
of the day and of the night,
hill and vale, and tree and flower,
sun and moon, and stars of light,
Lord of all, to thee we raise,
this our hymn of grateful praise."
"For The Beauty of the Earth"