On calm days I walk the woods. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I sense a flickering green flame— A fern leaf ticking like a metronome set at “Allegro”. Full of rhythm and joy, the leaf refuses to quit as I stare at it.
None of the neighbors near this nimble Peter Pan move. Even the marooned beech leaves hold their breath and play dead. Usually they do not hesitate to make a spectacle of themselves, castanets in the final act of a Zarzuela.
One solitary frond of the fern sways back and forth, a solo carried by the faint forrest breath, performing its dance, its fifteen irrepressible seconds of fame.