Walking in the deep woods there are many signs of violence. One has only to be observant. The pile of feathers between two trees tells a tale.
Maggie races off into the underbrush, led by her retriever’s keen nose, returning reluctantly to the whistle, an old long bone carried like some proud trophy. “Drop it!” She looks up, wounded, “What did I do?”
Walking yesterday, the familiar fallen trunk was painted in red streaks. I saw blood, leaping to the wrong conclusion. It was congealing sap. The photo doesn’t capture the wet droplets, more golden, more maple syrup, drying to this deep blood red.
I think, no, I’m sure, no, I believe, it is sap.