Rain. You can hear it above you, dripping limb to limb, sliding down the exposed cambium layer of a cedar or hemlock before it backs up and tumbles over rough bark. Beneath you the forest floor is spongy and firm, inches and layers of spruce needles, devils club, leaves and twigs, berries and tiny bits of what used to be living in and amongst the trees, now a thick carpet of moss and lichen and other life sprung from detritus of a rain forest.
It’s quiet here, a place filled with sounds that blend into the subconscious, where rain falls and runs down your face and you feel connected to whatever is in the middle of heaven and earth, the sky and terra firma, one with the elements. It’s a normal thing – wet, and if you lift your face and look up, suddenly the canopy is full of…
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