Mud! Mud! Luscious, luminous, dark, discouraging, omnipresent, eternal, liminal, impossible, everything possible. Mud is the season when forests look like winter but smell like summer. Sun lolls on icy pools and takes forever drizzling sweetness through ephemeral straits. A hairy woodpecker visits the base of a tree scouring for insect food among leaves long interred. A chipmunk fresh from its burrow scuttles along an eroded bank pausing on an exposed root wondering how to cross the flooded stream for breakfast in the woods. Cedar Creek ripples and whispers, beckoning. The soul embarks on a thousand journeys sinking and rising again a purified mess everywhere tracking mud!