There’s sunlight enough to fool the bees into roving for nectar, fool us into roving far off, up into the hills. The ridge is covered with pine trees breathing out balsam, caching our warm breaths. A ragged moth settles near a thread of golden sap; when I bend to see, sweet sharp terpenes bend me back. Oh, look, the sun is scattered: coins on the forest floor! I’ll put them in my pack, make us a lantern for our moonlit walk home.