In the middle of a tangle of branches there are trees binding themselves to each other. Their long limbs reach out and entwine. Hairy wigs of moss smooth down crinkled bark and the forest grove is cushioned and cosy.
On a high ditch there is one remaining foxglove flowering out of season.
Back home the sun shines on a cluttered desk, pouring light onto the large pile of things to be done. And while there are shoulds and strategies piling up by the new time, out of the tangle in the woods, and the single blooming flower, a new question is forming.....
Do I have a survival plan?
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