On the trail behind our house is an area of tight-growing Lodgepole Pines with leaning deadwood that we've named "Spooky Woods." When the wind blows, the trees rub together, creaking and moaning, sending a distress call into the cold shadows of a winter afternoon. After a snowstorm, the trunks are spackled white. Limbs beckon us to enter a wooded maze. In dim light, my imagination creates an entrance to another dimension. The trees whisper their warnings as we forge ahead, the woods closing around us.
During the month of January, writers from around the World are participating in
A River of Stones