It's was our tired feet that drifted us from asphalt path to grass, so soft to weary soles. Had we been rested and eager we would never have noticed - just barrelled on like every other tourist aiming for the seventh forgotten natural wonder of the world. We would have missed this history. This beauty in bark and sap and wood, some so ancient and enormous that all five of us could barely touch finger tips when we embraced it's antiquity (ignoring the oriental tourist lens wanting to capture these Canadian tree huggers). We traced shapes in the scars and dizzied ourselves trying to see the highest leaf, taking our time to wander around these stakes of time.
And standing alone in the field, hung about like a mistake, like a make-believe portal to Wonderland, this little cave beneath natural misshapen arbour that we ducked into like a secret, pirates in search of gold. And there, contained upon secluded trunk, someone had written my love story, tattooed it upon the flesh of the living, and I felt an instant ownership over this moment, hidden in this private cove, fingers tracing the letters of my heart.
And though the rushing waters are an amazing feat of nature, I think it was the trees that captured me this time, writing with sap words of wind and beauty and peace and history upon my spirit.
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