The wind carried a hint of rosemary as I stepped into the clearing—did you notice how the leaves seemed to line up like a quiet map? I’ve been thinking about timing our next harvest to match the moon’s cycle, but I’m curious if there’s a deeper strategy hidden in the way the forest unfolds.

I’ll tuck the marker into the bark of the oldest pine, where its ridges feel like a slow heartbeat. The canopy will tell me when the light changes, and I’ll listen to the roots for their quiet reply. If the shadows shift, I’ll let the forest speak its own way.