by Olivia Eyre
Where the mountains congregate, a paused grove lies awake like a crown. A hamlet of tall aspen trees quivers in the recursive wind; their bodies are forged rods of white gold. The translucent leaves drink cadmium yellow and birth bushels of canaries. Together they meld into ripples to form the roof of an effulgent birdhouse, and their fronds jangle below like crocheted Christmas ornaments.
The wind is a pearl gray wisp as it dives through the coat rack branches into the tangled foliage of pear green. The wind whistles as it nudges against candied berries, releasing them like beads of a broken necklace. The patient breeze continues, and like a soft stream pulling a toy boat, it is pulled through the coils rolling out into a whisper in the ear of a small caterpillar; ta ta Ta. The flocculent auburn hair sprouts up on the caterpillar’s bushy body, trudging across a decayed and damp branch cushioned with moistened moss.
The wind tiptoes over, eager, then climbs down to the sauna forest floor. It combs through the scattered sticks and fallen dijon leaves before it reaches the miniature cliff where the fallow ground reveals massive roots, marking home. It walks across the riverbank lined with various shades of gray pebbles like slush of a busy road in winter. It rubs its bare feet against the refined chalk of the rocks and dances over them, lifting the powdered dust up into the blonde hair that nestles over the forest.