The soft squish of not quite set mud that’s been kissed by last nites frost. It crunches when you first step upon it, the myriad of icy patterns exploding into a thousand shards of light against the morning sun. It shan’t be long until its warmth causes the trail to bleed; oozing and dripping from the roots of giant pines with the red clay underfoot. I take my time here. Wandering, wondering, whispering to myself all of the secrets I’ve attuned to under their majestic canopies. The feeling of bark and moss in perfect symbiosis as you lay in the understory, a bit of magic witnessed only by crows aflight, wings silent against the green.