woods write

People walk through here a lot. They carry peanut butter sandwiches wrapped in paper, or umbrellas, or their secrets folded into lace handkerchiefs. I used to hide here, pretend I was a snowflake, but the people walking through over and over would stop to question me, introduce themselves, ask why I never change. I'd say I'm just pretending to be a snowflake. They'd hand me a million tiny mirrors, all different shapes, bite into their sandwiches, open their umbrellas, drop their lace-wrapped secrets in the stream, and keep walking. One Sunday, a girl ran through. Her hair was braided with clover and swinging about her neck. Her fingers were stretched apart, reaching to her sides. From where I was sitting, it looked like she wasn't wearing shoes.