There
is a patch of Cinnamon Ferns across from where I sit in the morning.
They are about one foot high now which indicates to me that most of
the Ferns are past the fiddle head stage. I could lament what is past
that I have missed, but I choose to take up the reminder that I want
to spend more time in the woods. In this way I decline the
invitation to waist energy attending to something I can not change.
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