What is about a clear night sky that clouds the mind and forces introspection? Why do the stars, so simple in their enduring light, infinite in their numbers and distance, bring us to look inwards and find ourselves alone?

Why, as a boulder that is rooted by habit and tradition, do we resist the winds of change no matter how fiercely they may blow? Why do we not bow to the coursing of water and air as blades of grass, capable of spreading far across the land but always wilting in place.

A stagnant pond eventually darkens, scoured by algae and bereft of purity, but a river runs ever clear and clean; running as rapids or the gentle wanderings akin to the mind until it reaches the seas to where the waters spread into oblivion.

The winds do not cause the boulder to roll, instead slowly carving it down until all that remains is dust.

The grass may thrive and grow tall, but it is ever teased and made to bow before a gust.

The stars, so far and incomprehensible, still move in the night sky, even if only due to the indistinguishable turning of the world, and vanish upon their first flirt with the sun’s rays.

The Emperor of the Dark Woods,

Lord of fae and fair.

He rules over tree and bush

And all the creatures there.

Within the shadows of the trees,

Beneath the mountains tall,

He watches in wicked repose,

Plotting in his hall.

His streams and rivers as they run

Their course to oceans far,

Keep well the creatures of his land

But flood when rains there are.

The bear stalks the forest depths,

The stag, alone, bugles a lonely cry.

The wolves hunt on mount and hill,

And birds, through branches, fly.

The sprites reside on fungus heads, 

The nymphs bathe by shore.

The dryads dance beneath the moon

While the satyr plays the horn.

But beware those who enter here

For intruders are unwelcome.

The Emperor of the Dark Woods

Entertains none within his home.

“It’s a part of you,” said Ali DeNardo.

Honestly, I’m not sure what the context of these words were. I was not a part of the conversation when I happened to overhear her say these things.

It doesn’t matter, either. Really. Because every moment is a part of you. That’s something I have come to realize. To understand. To loathe.

The good? The bad? Does it matter? It shapes you in one way or another.

This moment. It’ll shape me. It’ll shape you.

That’s what I thought to myself as I stared around the bar. Looking upon faces I knew and did not know. Seeing all of them joined in a simple unity that was the place and moment in time we all found ourselves in.

“It’s a part of you.” Ali’s words still ring as clear in my mind as the stillness of fresh snow upon the ground, coating the world in a melancholic blanket of nostalgia.

It’s a strange feeling, I suppose, saying goodbye to a place. People are always a phone call or a message away. It’s hard to say goodbye to people. No. It’s impossible.

But places? How do you say goodbye to a building? To an idea? To a moment?

You blink and it’s gone. Not just gone. It’s forgotten.

That’s why I write about this moment. I don’t remember the time. It doesn’t matter, anyways. I didn’t even look at my watch to record the exact moment this memory takes place. I hope it becomes burned into my memory. It was a turning point, as silly as it may seem.

I took no pictures. Instead hoping that the blurred vision of my alcohol influenced mind would somehow become a turning point in my life.

Coworkers.

Friends.

Brief, fleeting, stupid love.

Did it matter?

Of course it did.

It was a part of me.

How long has it been since last I saw your face?
How long has it been since last I made you smile?
When last I left you, you stood in tears
Not wanting to be left alone.

But that is how I left you, alone.
I had to drive home to life and stress and complexity.
My choice was made, though I could have stayed
For one day more with you.

Since then what has happened?
Honestly, I wish I knew.
I never meant to cause you hurt.
Even now I only wish for your happiness.

I’ve grown since then.
I hope you have, too.
As I look back now…
Honestly it’s rather amusing.

How foolish we were.
So young.
So quick.
Was there any hesitation?

Perhaps there was.
Perhaps there should have been.
But you were my first true love.
And that is something I would never wish otherwise.

It’s funny, though.
You always preferred white wine
But I always brought red.
I guess I know you more now than then.

You were mine for so brief a time.
But I’ve been yours for so much longer.
I never gave up, to be honest,
Even though we both moved on.

But now I see you.
Thriving, succeeding, smiling.
You’ve met someone else, so good for you.
I’d not have it any other way.

How long has it been since I wanted to say
How much I loved you? How beautiful you were?
But we’ve moved on. Can you blame me
For being glad you’re no longer mine?

A giant once went out for a walk to patrol his home and keep it safe on a summer’s day. He was glad to see that all was well. The fish swam in their streams as ducks paddled over them, and they were happy. The deer ate the grass in the fields and they were happy. The lions stalked the deer from afar, and they, too, were happy. The wolves stayed at their den while the pups played, and all was well in the valley. And so the giant walked, seeing that the animals were at peace and that nothing was amiss.

The day went by without incident and night slowly came. The ducks returned to their nests, the lions and wolves to their dens, and the deer disappeared into the forest. The stars finally came out, and the giant laid down beside a blueberry bush to gaze at the heavens. He counted the distant lights and used them to form shapes in his head. He saw a bear and its cub, an archer, a bull, and a woman.

Feeling peckish, the giant reached over and plucked a branch full of ripe berries from the bush. Eating them one by one, he continued to let his mind wander as far as the most distant stars and beyond. At one point, while reaching for another handful of berries, the giant heard and agitated squeak. In his hand was the tiniest of creatures, a small female mouse.

“You need to be more careful with those big hands of yours,” she told him.

He apologized to her. “What were you doing on such a high branch?”

The mouse turned her head skyward. “So that I can better see the stars,” she replied.

The giant smiled at the mouse and nodded. “They are very bright tonight.”

“Are they?” she asked. “It is very hard to see them clearly when you are so small.

He thought for only a moment before he offered to lift the mouse up so that she could see better. She happily accepted his generosity, and carefully climbed into his outstretched hand. She then made her way up his arm and perched herself in the cup of his neck. The mouse gazed up with wonder in her eyes and the countless lights in the sky.

“There are so many.” She spoke with awe in her voice.

Again, the giant nodded. “There are. I feel as though there are new ones every night, too.”

So together they stayed awake, letting their imaginations run wild with the endless possibilities for shapes in the stars. Eventually the giant noticed that his shoulder grew quiet, and when he turned his head to look he saw that the mouse had fallen asleep. Tucked away in his neck, she had found safety and warmth, and  the giant smiled to himself as he turned back to look at the stars before he also drifted off to sleep.

This ritual became a usual occurrence for the mouse and the giant, meeting on nights it was clear to enjoy the night sky together. Even when it was storming, together they sat under the cover of a tree and talked. What did they talk about? It did not matter. Sometimes it was the tune to which the drops of rain fell. Sometimes it was the sound of the rest of the world around them. And sometimes there were no words shared at all. Autumn came, the days growing shorter and colder. The mouse had come out to their normal spot but was sad to see the giant was not there, and he did not come out  all evening. The next day she went to him and asked where he had been.

“The nights are too cold for me,” he explained. “I do not have the fur on my body as you do to keep my warm.”

The mouse did not consider this for long before she told the giant she would be gone for some time. She scurried out of the giant’s home and out into the valley, going to each of the animals in turn to ask for some of their fur. The lions gave to the mouse from their manes, the wolves from their tails, and the deer scratched themselves on the low hanging branches of trees so she could take what fell off. And so the mouse set to work for the next several weeks.

The first snow fell one morning, blanketing the ground in a heavy layer of white. The trees and bushes were bare, now nothing more than dark brown stems sticking from the snow. The giant stayed hidden away in his home, his arms wrapped around him to try and stay warm. Night fell after some time, several of the animals stopping by to make certain he was alive. The only one who did not come was the mouse.

He stood at the entrance of his home, waiting and watching. Eventually he heard something in the snow and come to investigate what it could be. He saw the female mouse struggling with a vest of the furs she had collected, and he picked both her and it out of the snow to take inside.

“Now you do not have to be cold when it is winter,” she said to him. “Put it on and come outside with me, there is something I wish to show you.”

The giant admired her work. Her stitching was as good as it could be for any mouse, of course, but it fit snuggly and kept the heat in. He promptly placed her on his shoulder as he had in the past and walked outside. To his amazement the sky was not only filled with seemingly infinite stars, but a rainbow of color danced above them. There were reds and yellows and blues and greens up in the air, creating a miraculous display for them both to watch. The aurora was magical to the giant, and he gazed unblinking at the sight.

“I have never seen such colors before,” he told her.

“I am glad you have now,” she said.

And so became the norm for the two. The night sky was their ritual year round. Such is the tale of the mouse and the giant.

Two cockerels sat in a tree on separate branches, equally high above the ground. One glared across the trunk at the other, quite upset at the company.

“This is my tree!” shouted the first. “You have no right to be up here.”

The second one frowned. “I sit on this branch just as you on yours.”

Unhappy with this answer, the first flew up to the next branch. “I now sit higher than you. This is my tree!”

In response to this challenge the second one climbed up not one, but two branches, now being the one further up. “I claim this tree!”

Thus the two birds continued upwards, bickering and squawking loudly until they reached the highest branch at the same time.

“This tree belongs to me!” screamed the first.

“I want this tree!” screeched the second.

So busy were these two cocks with their fighting that they did not hear the approach of a hunter down below. Now at the top of the tree, with nowhere to hide, both birds were easy targets for the man. He returned home with both birds, plucked their feathers and roasted them for his family, and he set them on the table for dinner and paused to give thanks to God for his plentiful bounty.

The birds, the bees,
They dance, they sing
And together drink sweet honey.
They love, they live,
Amongst the trees
Forever in harmony.

A storm did come
To lash the trees
Singing its vengeful song.
The birds, the bees,
They all did flee
To hide till morning’s dawn.

The rains did sting
The winds did howl
Silencing nature’s song.
The leaves were torn
But roots were deep
And so the trees held strong.

“Oh where, oh where?”
The trees did sing
Missing that sweet, honeyed song.
The birds, the bees,
They all had gone,
For all of them had died alone.

The birds, the bees,
They danced, they sang.
But all of them had died alone.