Where the Ferns Part

For the morning you wrap a single flower, unfold an old map, and step out of the house. Just past the garden fence the ferns already reach your shoulders; part them with one hand and a narrow path appears. A wire-strung Celtic harp climbs and settles on a five-note line, and a low wooden flute answers only at the ends of phrases. One brief minor shadow crosses the G major, the moment you glance back at the door. The destination is far away, and that pace is fine.