Fingers Crossed.

Fingers crossed. So many directions, so many paths. There did not seem to be so many yesterday, on the way in. The leaves are dripping down now, amongst the exposed roots and rocky outcroppings. The sky has an ill humor today, and it just might rain, just to spite. Because that is what this is all about. Turned-ill-humor, and spite. As if the thicket understood today’s mark. The walk in the woods yesterday was nothing as it is in current: alone, in thought, somewhat repentant, somewhat indifferent. No, not at all. Yesterday the sun was telling a much happier tale. A tale of how tales should be told. A beautiful movement of situations along and amongst the trails. The paths. Those meandering lines which denote direction in an otherwise confusing and foreign place. That forest place. Where we were. Where we were wandering those trails yesterday, blessed by the sun's warming rays which peeked grinningly through the pine tree tops, down to the pine needle beds where we basked below. The pine needle beds where words were said. The pine needle beds at the end of yesterday’s trail. The trail of yesterday. Yesterday’s trial. A trial that has lead to today’s trail. The trail back out, back home, menaced by the denouncing sky above. It may take a lifetime to find my way out. To find my trail out. To find a path back home. Fingers crossed.