Title   So when a man of meager fortune finds himself suddenly possessing a forest, what can he do but wonder — what kinds of life are here and what colors, what more will show itself in time? What are its seasons, what is the play of the light? The rain means something different here, the looming trees are not in the field guide, pleasure and pain are green, unscripted, the contours don’t follow the map. At night there are crickets, clicks, murmurs, abrupt scuffles, muffled screams, long stretches of silence. The pines are too tall for dawn to penetrate. Nothing is fixed, just the birds declaring their hours, their songs.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont June 2017