The Trees Know

     Late at night, she walked home. The wind was damp, the streetlight's murky glow reflected off of the low clouds, smothering the city in light. The streets were silent, the only sounds those of passing cars and the jingle of metal buckle as her boots hit the pavement, left, right, left, right. Blowing smoke from her mouth, she shivered in the damp breeze.
     " This place is a prison." she thought. She wished for something more, for the imaginary fairies and sprites of her childhood, for the long lost ability to be hopeful enough for belief in them. She wished for magic.
     The moon suddenly broke out from behind the city's suffocating quilt of clouds, bright and shining silver, the new light fighting for space with the dim, dirty radiance of the streetlamps. She stopped and looked up, struck with the sudden urge to try and touch it, to see if the glowing circle was really as close as it seemed to be. She reached up.
     Fingers stretched. And grew. Feet took root, boots turning from black to brown, worn, dirty leather to rough bark, sharp, bright spikes to small knobs on wood. Finger-branches touched the sky, a tree standing in place of the girl that once was, the moon caught in her branches. She saw.
     Everyday magic that kept children waiting for the flower fairies, for the monsters under the bed.
     Real magic, in the hearts of people, the pens of great writers, the minds of great inventors, the songs of great musicians.
     The realest magic of all, the turn of the Earth, the spinning if the stars, of the universe and universes yet undiscovered.
     And she saw true magic. The heroes that never die, the gods, myths, legends that would never grow old, that would walk forever in the shade under the trees at the heart of every forest. Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest, with Maid Marian by his side. Merlin, King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, hunting the Holy Grail forever. the Coyote, the Fox, the countless Dogs and Hounds of tales past and future. They came in war paint, in their robes, in togas, gowns, and armor. They walked in memory, Greek, Egyptian, Roan, Celtic, a legend is forever. Those that would never be forgotten.
     And she saw a girl. Standing alone on a city street, short skirt whipping in the wind, blonde hair tangling in her eyes, the still healing edges of a blue winged butterfly stinging on her back. Nothing special, no great heart, or pen, or mind, or song, not a hero, not a legend.
And yet...
"Hello moon" she whispered.
The forest dreamed.