Slip quietly through every woodland.
There is the wind which may swirl through saplings and their parents
and the tall grasses and dried flowers.
Bird wings flutter, mostly away.
Scratchings and rustling beneath the lowest branches and in the thick brier.
Delicate colors as in a painter’s palette, aside, muted and subdued in a landscape held back.
The memory flutters.
The words choke well before reaching the tongue.
So say nothing.