“I could feel the day offering itself to me,
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment-but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,” 

― Billy Collins, The Trouble With Poetry - And Other Poems

On a whim, I stop by the tiny park not far from our house. The parking lot is empty but I see a dog walker following one the few paths that cut through the forest while parking the car. I take the short path towards the lake, which I can see is high and muddy so I turn back towards the little patch of woods towering overhead. I listen to the birds, taking note of the quiet. I take a few photos of moss, decayed leaves, and one of the little stream that flows towards the lake. I stop and pet the dog, giving him the treat I find in my pocket while exchanging a few words with his owner. It is not until I head back towards the car that I notice the tiny mushrooms growing out of the moss on a nearby tree. I step over broken limbs and branches, slipping on a pile of slippery leaves, and make it to where the tree stands. What makes this the one, I wonder. For isn’t all of the tiny forest worthy of my attention? How often do I skim over moments worth noting, in search of a more?

Something worth thinking about.