A forest jar

We went for a walk in the woods.

We saw moose tracks and dying leaves and a tiny lake and dogs, covered in mud.

We wore our snow shoes, just because it wasn’t worth dirtying any other pair.

We wandered away from the path, treading in awe through the underbrush, which was composed of moss, ferns and mushrooms.

We looked around and, when no one else was watching, scooped up a tiny handful of soil and moss and branches and dead leaves and took it home.

We put it all in a jar.

We closed the lid.

And we waited.





Woods are not like other spaces. They are cubic. Their trees surround you, loom over you, press in from all sides. They are vast, featureless nowhere. And they are alive.

Bill Bryson, A Walk In The Woods


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