It's difficult to isolate where what is known meets what is seen. It's spring, and glossy leaves in miniature are unfurling like sails for the sun at the tips of long and spindly gray branches. A warm, confidant mist disguises their secrets from those at a distance, so they can whisper freely and share what needs to be shared.
There's a space in between where the two reach for one another but never quite touch, save for leaping blue arcs scenting the room with the sweet musty smell of ozone. And that's okay. That's where the whispers are kept.
The woods and dune valleys are re-haunted with sprites. Dusk comes unexpected as directionless laughter, joyful and indifferent, echos all night, recorded in the rings of the trees. Hemlock and beech branches fuse together in darkness against hazy stars, and the chill returns for now.
By the warm days, tiny pink buds like miniature cakes form on the gnarled ends of an apple branch. Yellow, earthy dandilions open and live to taunt perfectionism. Daffodils and grasses, quickened by thunderclaps and torrents, eagerly stretch up as though to grow along the rainstream to the sky where the sun is kept.
Seasonal electrical outbursts reach to balance charges between the heavens and the earth.