Two paths converged to reveal secret truths splayed out like little forks in the road. They begged indifference, and forgiveness, in the cool morning air. And like a watercolour painting the colours ran and leaked into each other so it became unclear where one finished and the next began.
Trees jilted into the clearing that was the sky, their wiry branches reaching far, far away from the earth below. Their roots burrowed down with purpose and hunger, intuitively digging for survival.
As the road wound forward, it also wound back. And as those trees reached for the sky, they also reached for the core – somehow both strong and secure, and yet wild and free.
The crisp morning frost crunched under foot, as though nobody had ever walked that path before. There were no other footprints. The road was clear, the trees silent.
Dew-drops collected on leaves creating prisms of light. They reflected each passing moment on their tiny surfaces before eventually dropping to the ground, splattering all their secrets back into the earth.
The sun splashed its rays like gold across the road, the light dancing over shadows as the day began to break.
That was the moment.
And whether those two paths would run parallel, or veer off into vastly different directions, was irrelevant. The beauty was in the convergence – in that one splendid moment in time.
The road ahead would tell a different story, a story not yet known. And this was the very reason for being grateful for the here, and the now, and for recognising the beauty in the dawning of this brand new day.