I have one hour.

I run for my coat, hat, and boots. 

Once again, I go to the woods. 

Look at the ordinary glory of the moment: the frozen mud, paw, hoof, and boot marks, and the gold and olive mounds of moss over stone. The woods in winter are bare and yet cluttered with monuments of life, from the murmurations of migration, to the scurrying squirrels, to the fringe of fern and pine. Dry lines of grass bend into mangled waves. The air is cold and clean. Streams drip, rush, curl, and gather into puddles, pools, and ponds. Everywhere, the leaves of history lie in delicate layers and ruffled piles, torn pages from the books of oak, ash, aspen, and birch. 

I walk with a paper notebook in my pocket and a pencil in my hat. Turn the world into words! And allow words to turn me back toward the world! 

Oops, I only have an hour! 

Now, I must run!

Up, around, over and through, to the road, to the road, I go!

I pause, panting, listening, 

Oh you silly humans, the cool woods call, always in such a hurry!