I love pine cones. They are fascinating.
While we were out on the hiking path this past weekend, I spotted a pine cone that had fallen. Instead of joining the other myriad cones littering the forest floor, this particular cone was instead caught by young oak sapling. It was a striking contrast -- the brown of the cone, the broad green of the leaves. Soothing, in some undefinable way.
Whenever I visit this particular campground, I think about collecting a giant pile of pine cones. I have never done it -- perhaps it is just the concept of a giant pile of pine cones that appeals to me. Because pine cones. So many pine cones.
Perhaps I was a squirrel in a past life.
Not Poetry Thursday
11 hours ago