Wondering through the willow forests that trace this tundra landscape is ideal in my mind. They are spontaneously dotted with cottonwoods and alders. And it really doesn't matter what kind of trees they are, for it's the base of their branches that makes them so wonderful. For all along the ground of this swampy land is moss. Moss, to me, is such a magical thing. Combined with the vibrant white mushrooms and grayish white bark, it creates a magical landscape. Old tree stumps house intricate designs of nature's green fabric. The lower part of living trees is hugged with the same thing. The grass grows short on dry land here. It's like a never-ending perfectly manicured lawn among the trees. And I love to just wonder amongst the shade admiring the many beautiful sights of the practically flat land. In most places out here you can see for miles. But in the thick clumps of trees you can barely see a few feet. To me it's inspiring. You can wonder for hours in lonesome silence, merely having your ears blessed with the whisper of the breeze for company. In a way it reminds me of where I always wanted to be. A moss covered utopia if you may. A perfection that you must choose to appreciate. But I never chose to love this home. I just always did, for not quite one reason at all.
