The trees are back-lit, flaring green-gold around their mossy edges in the morning sun while the silvery fog mutes the dark pines and turns the brown leaves crimson.
The Pacific Wrens are singing again. One perches on the blunt end of a stick by the trail in his brown and ocher body just pumping air from his lungs into sound like it’s a contest to win. He jumps onto the ground and becomes smaller than mice.
My mind has it’s own song, mulling over small conflicts in variations no matter how much I lose interest in them. But then the sound of black wings fills my head as a Pileated Woodpecker sails past to land on a tree and drum.
A raven croaks across the way and suddenly I notice the sound of water dripping out of the spongy moss into the mud all around me.
Down the trail a ways an old man passes wearing a faded raincoat he must have bought 40 years ago and I wonder what he has learned about love during its life. I don’t ask. Instead I stop and admire the marsh and its broad strokes of color in the middle of the green forest.
Above in the branches a robin sits so still I almost don’t notice.