She handed me an acorn, "For the writer's block", she said.
"Should I write about it?" I asked her.
The previous evening we'd met at the bar and played some pool. We then left to look at the stars, and afterwards an even further diminished party, three of us, climbed the ridge. I had trouble getting to sleep, and when I finally did, it was a dreamless instant four hours long. The acorns were falling, on tents, on cars, on buildings, and occasionally, people. The acorns were a hard green rain that morning,but once on the open expanse of the festival site, we were free from the noise and bombardment. That evening, upon returning to the camp ground, I was again met with the broken silence of a wood slinking into autumn. The pods of growth and potential were everywhere, announcing themselves with a knock. Change is like this, a swift falling down, a quick-or-you'll-miss-it event, and then your world clips along a different road, and you're not even sure you've turned. the grounds were littered with them, all seeds, all divergent paths, all possible trees, all possible food for a squirrel.
On this, our last weekend of our first year here at a garden-turned-festival, the change fell around us. Now, as I begin to embrace a move to the city, a new life planned for myself, The Ground is littered with potential. All weekend, I was careful not to trip on the possibilities, an eye cocked skyward so not to be hit on the head by what was to come.