The woods are unkempt. There is debris everywhere. Clogging the streams. Collecting along the edges. Causing the water to flow over, through, or around. Sometimes stopping the fragile trickle altogether. It is a cluttered space. Never even fully cleaned out by the heaviest of storms. The storms always bring something new. Branches fall daily. The ground is covered with decay. And the decay is covered with life. Moss. Lichen. Millipeeds, spiders. Entire generations born in the bed of decomposing leaves. Endless ivys and shoots coming up through the blanket of death. But the death remains. Though the seasons are changing, they always touch. The wood is never clear of decay. And the decay is never not sheltering life.

I wonder if we understand this when we say that there is a season for everything.