The Color Green.

Fog is futile after a spring rain. It sways in time with the dance of the pines. Needles whispering the lyrics to a song only nature knows. My outstretched hand does not stop the fog’s movement, merrily on its way to its destination. My gaze lingers on the wisp and wrinkles of gray matter before settling back on the wall of green behind it. Or should I say planted right in the middle of the fog, the pines only rustling with the wind. The fog tickles its branches and grazes its fingertips against the trees’ spines, like a lover does to a constellation of bone and freckles. The two compliment each other quite well. Making the greenness twinkle against such a dull background. Its ribbons of brown and black, and maybe even some yellow undertones, speak freely. Wanting to be seen. Wanting to be heard. The color green takes front stage thought. Each time. Every time.