faerie mornings, now. mist-silk weaving and tangling through the branches, draping opulently over the grass. tiny droplets caught in spider webs. (they make my hair curl like grass snakes down my back).
cool, but not cold. boots laced, all fourteen holes. in my black bag: the greenest thermos full of tea, minty sweet with linden honey. eggs and apples and cinnamon buns. the thickest woolen blanket. a book i’ve been itching to open.
i’ll know where i’m going when i get there.
the fog is lifting, a bedroom curtain pushed away by lazy aurelian light. the lake is a mirror and the birches drop their gold coins everywhere, spilling over, too many to hold. i follow the henna red of a squirrel tail up a narrower path, climbing roots and mossy rocks until i find it: a perfect clearing, lined with soft green moss and just big enough for my blanket, guarded by towering pines.
i crack my eggs on a stone, and eat them while listening to the knock-knock-knock of a woodpecker and the bickering of the jays. the tea is scalding hot, still, so i set it aside. the book is waiting.
and when i’ve turned the last page, then i sleep and dream, on the moss, in the sun, and trace sowelu on my skin.