The pines sway gently in the breeze. Back and forth. Back and forth. A dark-haired girl confidently strides—across a bridge formed by a log, over a field, past a hiking trail, up a grassy hill. She reaches a clearing and stands staring, open-mouthed and awestruck. A spiky, dark-green canopy stretches out overhead; tall trunks form a semicircle around her. A bullfrog’s guttural bass warbles; the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker rings out sharply. She returns many more times that summer, trees enveloping her in a soft embrace of leafy greens, pine needles interwoven with grass blades to create a comfortable resting place. The trees form her palace, a castle of pines.

Fall passes quickly, and the girl sits with a furrowed brow among the trees, hunched over her latest school assignment. Solemn. Serious. The trees sense the oncoming storm and worriedly rustle their branches. In preparation, they shed their summer garments, now favoring the harsh contours of bare branches over the lush emerald hues of the previous season. Decaying leaves soon carpet the forest floor; winter is approaching. The animals too prepare for winter. Striped chipmunks stuff their cheeks with berries, and the tiny red-breasted nuthatch begins its annual migration south. Soon, the forest is deserted.

Frozen blades of grass crack under pounding feet. The girl runs unheedingly into the woods, throwing herself down in the center of the clearing. Black hair splays against white snow. Hot tears expose a patch of bare ground. The trees no longer move to embrace her—they stand locked in ice, detached and untouchable. They are the monarchs of the forest. Regal and beautiful, but oh so very distant. Silence reigns supreme here. The birds have flown; the chipmunks lie curled up in their burrows.

Spring brings new life to the forest. Flowers peek through cracks in the dirt, and lichen begins to creep up tree trunks. Shoots of grass poke their green-bereted heads above the earth. Patches here, patches there. The girl returns, singing and dancing, gracefully weaving her way through the trees. Rings of speckled mushrooms host insects by day and entertain more ethereal guests by night. The haunting cry of a mourning dove floats through the air as sleepy-eyed rabbits emerge from their dens. Tantalizing whiffs of summer awaken the senses, harbingers of long, lazy days and endless warmth. 

Tongues of fire lick at the clearing. Summer promised endless warmth, and she fully delivered on her vow. Fire rushes through the forest, leaving behind a trail of smoking trees. It whirls through the foliage, performing an unholy dance. Flames blacken tree trunks. Scorched leaves shrivel, then drop to the ground. Deer run madly in an attempt to escape. Birds swoop out of the trees, harshly cawing warning messages to the animals beneath. The girl is not a part of this inferno—she was rushed away in an ancient car crammed to the brim with photo albums and musical instruments. The clearing burns.

The fire eventually subsides, leaving ashes in its wake. Crisp autumn days come once again, but not to a bustling forest. This forest is dead. Blackened skeletons of pine trees stand in the place of the vibrantly green palace that the girl knew and loved. The clearing holds painful memories of what used to be, and she avoids it. Debris from the fire choked a nearby pond, ceasing any water flow, creating stagnation from beauty. The bullfrog no longer warbles, for it lies rotting in the pond, contributing to the putrid stench permeating the air.

The girl cautiously eases her way across the decaying log bridge. One misstep and she’ll plunge into a frozen pond. She loses her balance for half a second, flailing her arms wildly before her feet find their positions once again.  A puff of mist escapes her lips when she safely reaches the other side. Icy air nips at her cheeks and she inhales deeply. The recent frost has completely transformed the forest. She stands in fairyland, surrounded by frost-covered trees. Her hand hovers over a blackened tree trunk, but falls back to her side, uneasy about disturbing any part of this scene. She tentatively crosses the field and then the hiking trail, afraid of what will meet her eyes when she reaches the clearing.

Icicles delicately festoon the trees, and frost twinkles on every branch. The ground is laid with a carpet of the purest white. Once again, the clearing is a palace, specially decorated for her homecoming. Winter has transformed the skeletal trees, turning them into graceful pillars of frosty white. Their branches extend to the heavens in an offering of thanksgiving. Enraptured by beauty, she flings her arms out and spins. Wildly. Freely. She throws her head back, catching delicate flakes on her tongue. Manna. The girl pauses to inspect a tree on the edge of the clearing. Noting the blackened bark, melancholy sweeps over her, but only for a second. A cottonwood seed has fastened itself to the bark, a winter dandelion. She plucks it off, places it on the tip of her finger, and, as she gently blows, silently makes a wish.
Spring will bring new life to the forest.