I think God had dropped a big bucket of green paint here. Spilled it. Bombarded it with the stuff. It's all green. The stream is green, the branches are green, and obviously, the leaves are green. No hint of yellow, or red, or even brown. The long beards of green moss cover where there could be soil or bark. Green algae carpet the streams. It's a paradise, a unique rain forest at the edge of the cold Northwest. The warm Pacific wind has given life to all that is verdant.
And there's the silence, almost a verdant silence. I notice the bench I am sitting on. That's not green. I notice myself. I am not green. We both had missed the pouring of the green paint by God at some point. I am an outsider, I missed the centuries long party where silence persevered to today and will continue to do so as long as we hold our responsibilities to protect the environment.
The birds have stopped making their noises now that the sun has risen to its zenith. The wind has stopped. And so all around me seems like some frozen fixture. I would get up in a moment and continue my walk through this enchanted forest, but now I just want to admire the amphitheater in which I am the only and very insignificant audience. My vision traces through all the details of the ceiling, the walls, but in this amphitheater there is no stage except the grand verdant floor of ferns and other tall shrubs before me.
It is now time to continue my walk.
