Spring on the Forest Floor

Crouch down for a second. Lower than you think — knee-height, where the light filters down dim and green. That's where spring lives in this canyon, and you've timed it. Look for trillium first: three broad leaves, a single white flower riding above them on a slender stem. Here's the trick nobody tells you. As that bloom ages, it doesn't just wilt. It blushes — fading from white to a deep rose, then a bruised purple — so the color of the flower is a calendar, telling you how many days it's been open. Now widen your eyes to the floor itself. That low blanket of little clover-shaped leaves, folded in threes? Wood sorrel. Oxalis. The leaves close up at dusk and in the rain, folding shut like tiny umbrellas, though right now they're open and drinking the light. Tucked into the shadier pockets, watch for bleeding heart — those small pink lockets hung in a row — and fairy bells, pale and nodding under their own leaves like they're keeping a secret. None of it lasts. By high summer, all of this has gone quiet and bare. You're walking through the brief, loud week of the year.