The animals of the forest have their shy way, yet the bark of the trees tells tales of bears hunting for grubs. In the gay canopy of foliage is the song of so many birds, a medley of diversity, the feathered souls of creation's song. In the earth are the prints of their feet, a story told in mud of their gentle ambling days. And so here in the forest I am quite alone and yet in fine company indeed. After all, where else but the forest can we walk through a living masterpiece?
There are times in the forest I stop and take a knee, to still my feet and open my soul, for there among the precious trees, those gentle giants of wood, is a bird the colour of a summer sky.
Amid the golden light that warms fur so soft and brown, in the tree-filtered air with an aroma both pure and earthen, a new foal is born, a new heartbeat and soul to live in this forest home.
The animals move through the forest on their gentle way, as if they were one creature with the trees and rain soaked earth.
There will come a day when the new wood furniture is seen in the same light as sculptures in ivory - that they are tombstones of the forests and the removal of the habitat for forest animals - this genocide of non-human species.
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