“Give me your hand and let’s enter!” I said while looking in fear at the dimming light inside the forest. The path started straight and soon got swallowed by the woods. The breeze we felt earlier ceded and only the upper branches moving talked about its presence. At first we heard the stream. As we approached it, sun’s rays were playing with us. They came through the canopy and danced on the ground. When we reached the stream, the sun was warming the earth, and steam was raising from the forest floor. The sun got notice and its rays were again dancing. We realized that among the rustling and burbling, the chirping birds have joined the chorus. The forest was singing to us. At the moment’s grandeur, we forgot who we were and where we were going.
“Remember,” I said, “how the birds are so happy in the springtime, and they quietly leave in the fall?”
We moved closer to the stream and sat down on a log. A squirrel climbed on a trunk nearby, looking at us curiously but undisturbed. The sun was by now dancing in the waves. Mushrooms were popping out through the moss, they were brightly colored, or earthy. They stood gallantly and defied their ephemerality.
“Let’s pick them up. We’ll cook a splendid dinner,” I said, stepping carefully in the softness of the moss. “But we have to be careful, mushroom are delightful but dangerous, one can feed you, another can kill you. They’re strange kinds. You can never trust them… just like people!”
It was almost noon, and the birds were never tired. They kept singing.
We walked towards the meadow, and we sat right on the grass, staring at the horizon, nicely warmed by the sun. Scattered clouds were rolling on a blue sky, their shadows traveling from mountain to mountain, over valleys and fields, gently touching the earth.
The birds were singing, their chorus joining the sounds of the land, the faraway barking of the dog, the man calling his wife while approaching his house walking behind the carriage and speaking softly to his ox, the cattle bells, the squeak of a mouse, the little drop of dew falling.
The sky was circling, its trillions of suns and galaxies, with all their weight swinging loosely, trillions of sparks dancing.
Under the great rotation, the earth itself got squeezed, caught in a movement that had no end.
But the birds kept singing.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “It’s so beautiful!”
Soon we walked back, the chorus of joyous birds followed. They seemed to never wanna go to sleep.