excerpt

. . . There sits a village with a great wood on three sides. Every year, in the days after the snow melts
and before the crocuses spring, the people axe the trees of the wood, trim its branches, insist on
cutting trails from here to there. They are practical, determined. But the wood is old and not swayed
by logic.

Now it is winter and the sun cuts a bright shaft through the trees. A plain brown finch hops and
flies through the light, alights on one branch and then another.

Listen to the bite of your mother’s voice and follow the shaft of light.
(turn to page 4)

Feel the touch of spun wool on your cheek and follow the finch.
(turn to page 24)