She threads all morning through the woods, now and sometimes again pausing, to hold a quiet, reasonable trunk, with the palm of both hands, to remember her need of slowness. Time relaxes somehow in the company of trees, and if the wind doesn’t stir up trouble, and a girl doesn’t move, time has been known to even rest a while. The old pines have no use for minutes or weeks, they’ve been rising so very slowly, while the sun slings overhead, horizon to horizon, in heartbeats of day and night, winter and summer, waking and sleeping. The trees just go on and on like that, counting out centuries with the finest of rings.
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Beautiful. I read and thought, I know this feeling, but for one change: "Time relaxes somehow in the company of horses..." Thank you for sharing.
Lovely!