Leaves scat across the track like jazz singers, the wind gusting as if it is notes from an improvisation, after midnight, in a small club in Manhattan.
Or Amsterdam.
Rain is waiting in the wings, maybe tomorrow.
Maybe tonight, as we sleep.
He walks on.
A young-deer, skits into the forest like a ballerina practicing on a small stage in Moscow.
Or Berlin.
He decides to follow.
Into the forest where silence hangs like forgotten Christmas decorations.
He stops.
He listens.
The wind returns, whistles and ebbs and flows and disappears into the valley below.
Leaving him to admire the baubles waiting in the branches.
Some silver.
Some gold.
They whisper to each other.
He tries to make sense of it, then remembers.
Stops trying.
And simply, Is.
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