On Sunday, I went for a hike with my running buddy/adventure mate and my daughter. We hiked a trail out by where I used to live, in the woods east of town. I spent many afternoons hiking the same trail when I was pregnant
with my daughter, five years ago. The diverse greenery and dramatic ravines never fail to amaze and delight me.

Over time, frequently traveled trails become the oldest of friends. They bear witness to the seasons of our lives, just as we tenderly observe their cycles of transformation. The moss carpets the ground, creeping between the shoots of buttercups, nettles, and ferns. Branches bow and bend asymmetrically. Old logs, showing their sepia-red innards, nurture creamy supernatural fungi. A chartreuse and emerald canopy stencils out dappled sunshine, while the birds and wind play their symphony.