I live in the forest, where the moss bids you to look down, and the trees bid you to look up. The woodpeckers bid you good morning, and the blue jays just want you to shut up and listen, already. At nightfall, the stars lay so dense in the sky, that you can wrap yourself in them, if only the trees wouldn’t get in the way. The hooting of the barred owls lulls you to sleep.
In the woods, anything can happen; all you need is a handful of magic beans, a conversation with the infamous immortal goldfish, a drink from a clear, cold spring, the flash of a fox’s tail. If you’re lucky, you can dance with a lady’s slipper, but only in June.
It’s the stuff fairy tales are made of.
But there’s always room for wishing, even in a fairy tale. There’s no pizza delivery here, nor is there a house built out of candy for those midnight cravings. The trail of crumbs can only lead to one of a handful of places: the river, the cemetery, the library, and town hall–or, of course, deeper into the forest. You might find a woodcutter, but more likely, you’d just find wood.