What do I care that the stream is trampled, the sand on the stream-bank still holds the print of your foot: the heel is cut deep. I see another mark on the grass ridge of the bank – it points toward the wood-path. I have lost the third in the packed earth. But here a wild-hyacinth stalk is snapped: the purple buds – half ripe – show deep purple where your heel pressed. A patch of flowering grass, low, trailing – you brushed this: the green stems show yellow-green where you lifted – turned the earth-side to the light: this and a dead leaf-spine, split across, show where you passed. You were swift, swift! here the forest ledge slopes – rain has furrowed the roots. Your hand caught at this; the root snapped under your weight. I can almost follow the note where it touched this slender tree and the next answered – and the next. And you climbed yet further! you stopped by the dwarf-cornel – whirled on your heels, doubled on your track. This is clear – you fell on the downward slope, you dragged a bruised thigh – you limped – you clutched this larch. Did your head, bent back, search further – clear through the green leaf-moss of the larch branches? Did you clutch, stammer with short breath and gasp: wood-daemons grant life – give life – I am almost lost. For some wood-daemon has lightened your steps. I can find no trace of you in the larch-cones and the underbrush.