A cluster of trees usually ignored. The bundle in the corner of her bedroom window view. A contrast to the furrows in the Earth, the shoots of grass in the lane, the sunshine glinting off the barn: a universe unto itself.

Today, she wouldn’t ignore the bush. The heat, the Earth, the sun. The length of the grass, the buds on the trees. All indicated it was time.

What was a speck grew to an entity. Down one hill and up another transformed the bush into a presence. Up one more and giants soared, friends of forefathers she knew from stories. She turned toward the Niagara Escarpment on the horizon. How many miles? 100? 200? The space gave her the illusion of solitude. How could such an expanse not be teeming with life?

But the bush? A wall of trunks. A delineation of space. Privacy. Protection.

She veered off the lane. She left a trail, the grass of the tree-line bent by her tread. The wall of trunks broke apart and a secret emerged. The sunlight could penetrate still, but the leaves grew, enclosing the microcosm; the turnover from light to shadow loomed. She crossed the precipice, here marked by a maple and beech.

Plant life abounded, an encyclopedia of names her dad knew. She was learning. Dogwood, ash, bracken ferns, merrybells: names compiling since she childhood. But none the name she wanted today. She cut through saplings; their twigs snagged at her clothing, tickling her arms. She followed the ridge, scanning the valley, hoping to catch a glimpse. Finally, a path through the undergrowth emerged. Her pace heightened, adrenaline fizzed; when she reached the valley floor, she spun around.

She gasped. The trilliums never failed to take her breath away. The valley side was covered like a snowfall in the warmth of spring’s end.

A mental photograph was added to her collection. Carefully, she climbed, to preserve as many of the darlings as possible.

Surrounded, she lay down. The sun warming her face, she breathed in the Earth, the blossoms, the sweetness. She absorbed life.

In the bush.