I am not a farm girl, nor even a country girl--but a woods girl, with lichen for skin and leaves gracing tangled hair. I am old as the hills. The elders called me "dryad". If you blink you may miss me. But if you sit quietly under the old oak, I may one day appear for you.
As I stare out the window, I lose track of the raindrops. Beltane is right around the corner; as of this writing it should be clear this weekend. My next test: wander the woods with a larger group than I am used to.