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In the early mornings I’ve been hearing geese honking, crows, and a woodpecker, here or there at one of the tall trees, knock knock knock. I miss the sound of white winged doves, so gentle. Yesterday evening we drove up to the place of one of my sister’s friends. Up through steep, deeply wooded—such tall, tall trees—and winding roads, so shaded in places there was still snow at the roadside, though the temperatures have been up in the low 60s in the afternoons. We sat at the friend’s fire pit, talking. The coruscating embers of a heap of pine cones in the bottom of the bowl of the fire pit drew my gaze, as embers in the fireplace held my attention when I was a child. Off the friend’s deck, on the other side of the house, where multiple hummingbirds availed themselves of the sweet water she provides them, was a drop-your-stomach view over a valley to a mountain ridge, layered in endless-seeming pine, madrone, and fir.
Looking it up, I find the forest here includes such enticingly named trees as sugar pine, incense-cedar, white fir, and black oak. Words of slow conjuration, words of story.
