Tonight there was the gift of a walk at Seward Park -- a glorious 300-acre city-forest occupying a peninsula on Lake Washington, a half mile from my house.
My friend C. and I traversed the temperate rainforest of the interior, on the lookout for baby owls. We spotted three juveniles, who keened and swooped about our heads, doing that extraordinary head-rotation-thing while perched, fluffing their baby feathers.
Periodically, a pileated woodpecker struck its beak against a tall snag, the sound resonating deeply and melodically in the hollow trunk. Crows harassed an eagle above the treetops.
The air smelled green -- can something contain the scent of a color?
Our path twisted and curved through glens of ferns, on boardwalks above marshes, through a grove of old-growth firs -- everything thickly draped in moss.
It's been at least four years since I walked these woods, and I felt as if I had come home, home to an enchantment that's been locked in a keyless closet for far too long.
I am the key.
The closet is this life.
The door is open.