Short story, prompt no “a”-s
I love strolling in the forest,
lungs push the ether in, then out,
hips move legs in rhythm, soles meeting the ground with every step propelling the body, shoulders, crown grow higher, stretching up to thin diluted indigo.
Yellow, russet, brown melting, sliding down, rustling onto the ground,
the few goldfinches, thrushes still busy flying from bush to tree,
helping themselves to wild berries, to honeysuckle.
The sky is limitless, pure blue, kiln-burnt brittle pottery;
the Sun shines, giving enough love to keep the spirits lit up, light.
Squirrels busying, running up and down the trunks to pick and store hickory nuts for winter provisions, burying them, so one can decidedly rely on the reserves so wisely and diligently procured.
Deer rustle in towering goldenrods, then suddenly stop look with their soft worried eyes, still set to run on very first clue. The young buck’s horns sticking out of fluffy blooms of flowing in breeze the lemony yellow on blue and green of surround hues. Bees and butterflies buzz collecting nectar, scented bitter - sweet drifting cross the field.
The breeze whispers from somewhere, sometime,
fetching the silly recollections or regrets or moody thoughts
which could so utterly entice, overwhelm
only in the months before
the white obscurity of coming snow.
© 2026 Tamar Shengelia. All rights reserved.
Photos mine too.