On crying woods and sleeping cats

I’m up in the lakes again. I took the ferry to the other side: is quieter. Up in the hill there was a broken wood: chunks of pines trees on the ground, cut ready for the wood factory. The wind moved the surviving pines, they was a sound, like a cry. I thought back in the past woods used to be sacred, magical places. Mysterious. Dark. This one was just hurt.

PS – the cat is Charlie, he’s my friend Anne’s baby boy. 🙂


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