If I were to tell you about the woods, I would whisper about strawberry blooms. I would whisper about Jack-in-the-pulpits. I would whisper about how rain darkens wood, greens stones, grows ferns (furry little knots right now). How you might even miss seeing them in the burnt brown, brick red leaf litter of last fall. Your feet sink slightly in, soaking in. Your hair grows damp. We call this April. The month of looking up. Of measuring. The distance between branches. How many days till shade. How much sky is left.