I walk along the footpath, holding a small hand. Its owner has pockets filled with rocks, leaves, feathers and dirt. When we get home these objects will be grouped, wrapped, hidden in drawers, stacked awkwardly next to bobby pins, buttons and broken things, and generally acquire any unclaimed real estate in our small urban apartment. Some of them will inadvertently go through the washing machine.
Clink. Clink. Clink.

For as long as I can remember these small hands have been collectors. When I cast them, I find the resemblance to my own hands with their long, slender, collecting fingers is uncanny (and perhaps a little unearthly).

The events of the past year have elevated the quiet power of these objects and things of nature to the point where a “tree change” became a necessity. We are adjusting to a new world order, and I recall Sally Lewry’s poem “Able In The Presence Of Rocks” (2018)

[…] there, you can lay as long as you like
as long as it takes
to grow, to root
to feel stable, vertical once more
able, in the presence of rocks