The forms of sleep

A walk in the winter woods brings on meditation.  The sights are less enlivening, and small things loom larger in the experience.

In the woods, the forms of the trees—often wind-mangled and mutilated—are easier to see, and the quiet eye settles on bark, dead limbs, and fungus instead of on the showy wildflower or playful birds.

The forms of life, rather than life itself, are plain to see.  The fluffy heads of the dry grasses glimmer in the setting sun.

The furrowed bark harbors a tiny acorn.

A burr oak’s bark radiates tension even in its sleep.

Elsewhere, downed limbs shed the disguise of life, revealing new beauty.

They speak to us of the unity of all things.