I’ve spent a summer not seeing the trees for the forest. All sorts of green, capitalizing on being the colour of camouflage and hiding in plain sight.
I’ve passed moments in grass so tall, it seemed reasonable it tickled the sky in much the same way it did my legs when I jumped up and ran for it, dodging the unintentional sabotage of twisted ankle gopher hole reality.
I’ve slid contentedly into the delusion that it will stay thus, regardless of how many times I’ve witnessed these trees and mountains succumb to winter.
Dying leaves remind me this is folly.