We've been escaping into the woods lately, taking long walks on paths that weave between trees and fallow streams. When it's dry, the path is dusty and easy to traverse, but when it's wet, every step is studied as we maneuver the high ground, avoiding the spots of deep and slippery mud. It's quiet- so quiet- in the wood and we often walk with only the hum of insects, the pounding of our hearts, and the noise of our own footsteps sounding our ears. The air smells of the color green and also of dirt, unless we're by a stream where you can also smell the natural scent of decay mixed with the sweet scent of fresh water. Occasionally, voices echo between the trees- a woman calling to her dog or the excited scream of a child- and we spin in place, searching for the source which is hidden by the greenery around us. When we're in the wood, we let our senses take over and guide us through. At first it feels as if we'll never find our way out, but when we stumble back upon the entrance we're always sorry to have found ourselves right back at the beginning again.
Alas.
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