[early this morning, in my woods]

It’s beginning now.  The woods seem to be breathing slower, winding down, the pulses of the trees are dimming.  The color and textures are delicate, less robust, descants weaving over the pools of sticks and pine duff on the forest floor.  I can smell a musty murk, a mighty morph, the rot of leaves on damp, just the edge of it, a prelude.

The quietude here, at times, is a thundering of the majestic.