The symbol for this place isn’t on any map. You won’t find it on the page, a post, or written in the stars, because those places require perfection that rips at the foundation. Here the branches twist and leaves are mixed hues of emerald. The woodpecker taps a rhythm that bounces unevenly against the ear. Babbling, the brook carries on a conversation with the daffodils as trees lean close to catch each secret it spills along the shore.
A graveled path crunches underfoot as they walk hand-in-hand up a muddied path. Across the stair and up a hill, they journey to the place where a counsel of trees gathers. Worn by the winds and time, their leaves no longer bud, but much like old men sitting around a small town barbershop, they argue and laugh about moments long since gone. On occasion, branches reach up in silent prayer. The birds quiet to a hum in reverence, but not the people. They continue past, unaware of the appeals, disconnected from the divinity of this moment.
On an old bench, scarred by love letters, they watch the world pass. In the distance, fruits of the land are gathered by laborers of soil and sunlight. A hawk plays on the current. Its wings dip and turn with each gust as it searches the grasses for movement. Nearby, the bushes rustle as the wind whispers. She turns to gaze at the imperfection of each leaf, the twist of vined stems, the asymmetry of petals, and wonders if anyone else can see the perfection of it.
She walks, barefoot and connected, through the grasses. The mud oozes between each toe; cool and moist, it grabs and roots her to the land. One last glance back to the hill, she closes her eyes to listen as life continues the flutter. The woodpecker taps, a bee buzzes past, the wind picks up a couple clouds looking to hitch a ride, and the gravel crunches. Four dollars and a parking pass was all it took. She can’t be certain, but she’s pretty sure God lives somewhere on that hill.
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If it isn’t spoken or written, if it’s held in whispers, does it then become a figment of the heart?