Misty spring mornings conjure images of Avalon. It hangs low over the newly budding land and drips along the banks of the river. It called me out to the bridge, a new place I've not yet been.
The bark on the trees glows in the moisture like freshly wet silk.
Striking features are illuminated.
And dew quenches baby leaves.
A bridge between worlds, I walk into the mist with no expectations. I hear the rippling water and hazy breath of the forest. The smells floating are of watermint and cress.
I open my pores to the humid touch.
And gaze quietly at the heron.
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