This is where imagination lives.
It burrows under fallen logs and runs with the river beneath winter’s ice. It nestles into footprints left by animals and hikers and my own boots. It breathes and it thrives in the open and unbroken world.
In a deserted stretch of urban woods, anything could be. The paw print by the river could be that of a thirsty bear. The hollow trunk could be home to a fox or opossum. The log fort could have been built by rather large and sturdy fairies, or by the governor, or a bored group of teenagers avoiding an afternoon at school, or a marooned band of pirates — and the fallen tree next door is probably their ship. Anything could be. Only the telling waits.