For extra tranquility, try listening to this letter—I record outdoors so you get to feel this place.

Lines stretch low between ground-cover vegetation, and hover high in the trees. In early and late light silk glimmers, refracting colour and providing a thread to follow through the wood.

Here are some of the welcome signs of Spring that all-of-a-sudden seem to be here.

Early evening. The sun extends long fingers between the trees—pine mostly, some birch. Gossamer threads glisten between grass and heather—slimmest silk, sticky trap. Labyrinthine lines more maze than solution. A soft-skinned breeze plays them, strings vibrating with silent tune.

The moss, to human eyes, appears empty. Movement triggers old senses: a solitary roe deer, no threat. Upwind, it doesn’t scent you. Slow movement, twinges of arthritis perhaps, or stiffness of thinned muscle. Reaching the trees, it becomes another shadow.

Everything is dry underfoot. Pine-cones crunch, twigs snap: stealth is impossible. Everything, that is, except for the moss which holds its water tightly.

Signs of spring stop me in my tracks. The first leaves opening on a birch tree in a sunny spot; the first two flowers on Scotch broom (Cytisus scoparius). I take the main path through the wood, match my stride to the light flicking between the trees.

I greet the regulars: song thrush on the road, chiffchaff on the corner.

Green flushing leaves here and there waylay me. I try monochrome, but you really have to look at birch breaking bud in Velvia colour. The young are first, and the fortunate—those with a little more sun, a little less frost.

A chaos of feather, barb, shaft and quill. Something is missing: life, departed. Soft, sad, random yet still beautiful. When everything was green, I turned to black. When all around me is alive, I photograph death and decay. Some may think me strange, but it is all part of nature and there is no denying the small beauty at my feet.

The next morning I reach the feathers from a different direction. Despite knowing, the new reality is yet a shock. On an altar of moss and blaeberry, something placed as if in offering: a perfect parabola of wings. A void where the body should be. Spine red raw, tendons torn, upright. A petticoat of frills above blue-grey scaly legs draped, half-crossed, a strangely relaxed placement at odds with violent death. A sudden, sharp noise: kek-kek-kek-kek-kek, kraa. Does the male pheasant call in vain for his bride?

The sun works magic on the hills, but has hidden in darkening cloud by the time I set off. To one side, dry dusty fields harrowed and rolled. On the other green grass, a carpet for young lambs to gambol across. The lane divides them, the sky unites them. Old stumps beckon, a place to sit and sketch. Over my shoulder rain is fringing, drawing near.

China blue forget-me-nots, white gean and black thorn, buds breaking on willow, hawthorn, vivid sycamore. I find a fence post to rest my pad on and draw grey down from the sky onto paper. Drops of rain introduce a welcome unpredictability. I juggle wet paper in the breeze, ignore the water on me, return to the track feeling alive and energised by it all.

Thank you for joining me on the moss. Every like, comment, and share prompts a fuzzy warm feeling and makes it all worthwhile. You can even do this from your email.

Until next week,

PostScript

• There is so much powerful imagery and writing to be found on Substack. Milk is so much more than something in a bottle. I defy you to read this account by Geoffrey Gevalt and not be moved.

• Notes may be getting more like social media, but there are still treasures of word and image to be found within the app. At the moment I’m enjoying

  Jan Elisabeth
  ’s writing prompts. More than this, they are an education through the insights they provide. One week in, well worth reading even if you don’t do every one.