The forest feels like warm wood again.
Yellow that drifts through thick canopies unseen, green that fills the entire sky, of gods' reach. The trees that play like instruments, wind and string fusing together in an eternal polyphonic noise. You can taste it in your mouth, the honey of wooden aroma and walnuts, hidden in the past and found in the present, stored cold beneath the aged roots of the oak tree.

It quiets and comes back around. The crackling sounds of the gods' musician, his strings that move the human faced deer in crooked ways, crooked as the bark of their trees, crooked as their branches and as the bend of their stream. He plays the warm deep melodies that lend color to the creatures observed from above.

Sunkissed greens and browns cradle like memories, memories beyond and before mortality.