In Spring, the woods never wake all at once. They stir in fragments--moss first, then water, then the smallest, bravest leaves. The path is still soft with last year's decay, but something new is threading through it, quiet and insistent. What I love about a spring forest is how it holds two truths at the same time. Death is still everywhere: fallen brances, hollowed trunks, the pale bones of last year's plants. And yet, from that same darkness, new green pushers through. It