After the rain fell, there was a smell to the air that only rain can bring. Pollen washed off cars, and driveways, pooling on the road like a root beer float after the ice cream has melted.

The flowers strain to remain open under the weight of the water droplets. Stems reach out as if to smell the morning or the chance of warmth.

Heading out, other plants open up to breathe in the morning, exploding with the joy of spring and color, singing their visual song.

Crossing through fields of wild flowers to reach the woods. The sun blinks between clouds, unsure of whether it wants to hide or power through the gossamer clouds.

The seeds and pollen sitting on the surface of the pond are held back. A wall sits, made of rocks and the fallen lumber of heavy winter snow only a few months ago. The water, however, freely flows to join the brook.

The stream is pregnant and heavy with the recent rain. It carries as much life as a woman does when holding a life within her womb. Pieces of wood rest having been left after heavier recent rains. As the water rushes down, I climb upwards escorted by my dog and a fleet of flies and mosquitoes. Roots embrace the trees long fallen and rotting.

Logs cleaned from the path, lie sawn, and stripped of bark by age and disease, yet still full of beauty. The texture dark and rich with the rains touch.

The cascades are fired up and full flowing. Later in the summer, these will be reduced to a trickle, but now are a force of thunder. The path takes us from Great Brook and into the trees.

It is not long before we are back next to the brook and near the top.

One Mile Pond, the largest beaver pond I have seen. Then it is time to head back down

It rains for a while, but clears. The sun pushes its way out, and we find the rare lady slippers, protected in many States. There is something about these strange plants that I like. First I see one, but peering between branches, I see more hiding in the woods. I realize I should have brought my tripod.

These delicate and endangered flowers are preceded by trillium, another plant which is best left to its devises in the woods. Even breaking the stem can kill the plant. I keep my dog, Moe, close to me and away from the plants. She sits patiently waiting. Then we are off again.

Coming out from the deep trees and shadows the ferns unfold. A flash of orange and I spy a salamander, no longer than 5 mm long, ducking under blades of grass and twigs. Hanging from a thread a seed pod dangles between two trees swinging and spinning in the breeze.