It was spring yesterday. I walked through the woods on a clay path, perfumed with loam.
Early in the morning.
In the stillness, what were once bare branches, bore small buds. Unseen at first but when noticed, in the thousands.
Birds, once seemingly silent, or perhaps silenced by my absence, made their calls.
A breeze rustled the decomposing leaves and brought with it aspirations.
I planned for tomorrow, as the foliage thickened, and a cacophony of insects buzzed.
But it seems too hot, I thought. Better to stay indoors.
But it seems too rainy, I thought. Better to seek shelter.
The zenith began to shift, and slowly the silence returned.
The path became cold.
And I am still planning.