The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
The soft moss cushions my back perfectly as I lean back, gently in case the branch snaps, and my head fits perfectly in the nook and crannies of my favorite oak tree.
A soft wind carries the first scent of winter frost, coming from up North, and when I close my eyes I can literally see the sparkle of the low-hanging sunlight and the shadows of the oak leaves as they brush against each other in the autumn wind, creating a lovely melody of brambles and three-pointed figs and golden yellow.
Beneath me sprawls green, spread as far as my eyes can see until they disappear into the horizon. I feel as though I’m a lone detractor in a sea of peace and silence, something that is unwanted here, where everything is quiet and all is calm.
I suddenly become acutely aware of the grass that I’m sitting on, the moss my back is leaning against. How they must feel, to suddenly have an unwanted visitor in their midst, a foreign presence that they know not what to do with, what actions to take. How horrible must I seem to them, when all they have known in their ever-fleeting lives is the whistle of the wind and the shushing of the trees?
Slowly leaning forward, I stand up, afraid to take even a step lest I confound just one more blade of grass, one more tiny earthworm that burrows in the dark brown soil.
The autumn leaves crunch under my unyielding feet as I take one step after careful step, retreating from the hillside, leaving everything back in their solitary place and peace.