Thomas Doty – Storyteller
On the last evening of spring, I sit on a log in an old growth forest, high in the Siskiyou Mountains. The wind breathes as a whisper downvalley, climbs mountain slopes, bends grasses and wildflowers in the alpine meadows. In these woods, trees scrape and creak with old voices. And it seems they have more than enough stories to outlast the shortest night of the year.
Beyond the slow lengthening of shadows, the blinking on of stars and the rising of the solstice moon, into darkness so brief it seems hardly worth having, the wind blows on.
I sit in the forest and listen. The old growth creaks toward morning and welcomes the summer, telling stories that have shifted the seasons for eons, stories that sound like the growing of trees.
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