I sat near the footpath of henna and stone.
To the left, a steep bank of ferns
reach out in unison as if longing
to brush your arm.

Swollen redwoods climb high
branchless towers stretching 
for the light they’ll hoard
before it can reach the forest floor.

Ahead, a log bridge crosses a creek
hidden by underbrush
(Am I assuming too much?
There’s no sound of water.)

Across the bridge peek strips
of sunlight - they made it! -
promising earthy aromas of
warm peat and drying moss.

A lone woman breaks my trance
too-smartly dressed in navy blue,
strawberry hair curling loosely
at the nape of her neck.

I dare not follow, 
so settle again into my recess 
where I’ll bide the afternoon
on the chance she may return.