It's Still Life

The Forest, Midsummer Dawn (a haibun)

The path underfoot unspools like an old spell—threading through oak older than the word amen, older than the sun that still drips dew with sleep. Ferns uncurl at my ankles. Flint glints like forgotten teeth, and a pony stirs in the bracken… her breath steams a weave of mist.

Listen! Hear that? A woodpecker carves its message into bark—patient, precise, the forest’s morse for those who listen. There’s no walking quickly here; the hush invites no hurry. Only remembering.

hoofprints in loam—
the earth still carries echoes
of other riders.