Forest on a misty, foggy day

THERE’S NOTHING like the smell of a forest on a misty, foggy day. Be it the Coast Redwoods or the Olympic Peninsula or the humble Church O’ The Pines. It’s a fragrance that reaches inside of you and reminds you that you are a part of everything and everything is a part of you. On a gray, monochrome day, not

IN THE FOREST

IN THE FOREST, some things glow. Even on a cloudy, drizzly evening, half an hour before dark, they glow. Not so much from the sunlight, of which there is little, but somehow from within. A red maple Kathy and I planted twenty years ago. A redbud tree like the one my grandad and I planted and watered so faithfully, one