The Whispers of the Forest.

In the blush of morning, where sunlight dapples through the leaves, the forest breathes, an ancient sigh, its whispers twining into the air— soft secrets folded in petals and bark, tucked away in roots that delve deep, cradling the earth in a lover's embrace. Here, each rustle of branches tells a tale of life and loss, of laughter and sorrow— the staccato of woodpeckers, the gentle hush of doe's hooves dancing on needles, the symphony of cicadas weaving together, a tapestry of time stitched with silence. Time, a watercolor wash, fading edges of yesterday's fears; a moth’s fragile wings, painted in twilight, dance as memories flicker— the playful shadows of squirrels, nature’s jesters leaping from limb to limb, each movement, a reminder that joy is found in fleeting moments. Beneath the oak, gnarly and grand, I trace my fingers along its skin, a map of years drawn in grooves and knots, each splinter a heart, a story told under moonlight, silent witnesses to the lover’s embrace, promises etched in the cool earth, laughter mingling with the crackle of leaves. A soft chorus rises— the whisper of the wind, breath of forgotten spirits, calling to wanderers caught in despair, those lost in.