Crocus

A warming spring sun shines periodically from behind the cloud dappled sky, clouds which move with intent beyond the canopy, a barrier in motion to enjoying the sun as you'd like.  The mature Beech and Oak of the Old enclosure stretch their upper boughs and smaller limbs towards these skys; the forest feels ready to embrace the spring, having had its fill of the dank and cold.  Somewhere amongst the myriad of trees a Woodpecker sounds and as I pause, focusing to hear, I become aware of a cacophony of birds song; the forest sings.  Under foot the woodland floor is desiccated and brittle, crisp noisy leafs, all the energy they were has returned to the earth, readying for the emergence of springs  burgeoning. Protruding from the leaf litter is a single Crocus, a point of colour amongst the faded browns and oranges of last years glory; I passit again on my return and its delicate mauve petals have closed tight to the late afternoon chill.  Atop a knoll within the wooded enclosure are 2 mature Douglas Firs, tall and full, they stand out from the other trees, particularly at this time of year; taking the views through to Red Rise, it strikes me, the vista I'm enjoying will shortly be obscured as the tree adorn their leafy attire, closing in, creating secluded groves.  Stopping at one of the Douglas I inspect the bark for wounds where sticky resin may form; I collect some, as it warms between my fingers it releases a sweet pungent small.  At the next Fir I gather more, this time most is fresh, like clear honey; the smell hangs in the air.  Now two woodpeckers sound, one from either side of me.  The sun's been free of clouds for a while now, and as I make my way, my senses still swimming in the scent of resin, it becomes apparent to me ... I'm smiling a broad smile. Oh, the joys of the forest.