Fuschia shadows stain the witchhazel covert, enchanted with shamrocks and the smell of spring onions. We are warned against the Easter dress beauty of the cabbages and our own curiousity. Fog coats our skin and eyes and the back of our tongues with the sweet and sour morning. We wait for the flash of red, for the cardinal.
Our guide bird alights and darts upward and then sweeps away from the formal beds. The watery morning makes the spiderwebs visible. We avoid them while we admire the necklaces and belly chains that drape through the bushes. Camellia blossoms lay discarded beneath the bushes. We smile. The party must have been epic.
We follow the red bird beyond the path, down to the edge of the water. We cling to thin trees leaning horizontal over the shallow creek.
Our red omen zips across the water. Brown birds flush from beneath us, smearing us with feathers and fear. We cling to the branches.
Grey returns as the water slides downstream beneath us. Perhaps it is shallow enough for us to ford.
Red sweeps up the far bank.