April, and the wind travels cold and free through the woods.  There is a space where the bed was placed, now empty.  A space where we lay, looking up at the trees as they swayed and gently crashed into each other.  Now any place could be this place - there is no longer a place of reference for looking up and dreaming, for closing the eyes and hearing just this sound, in just this way.

The wind plays freely between the trunks of the Sitka, their rough bark rasping the air.  It is so cold for this time of year.  The sleepers have gone, the bed has been dismantled, there is no more dreaming in this wood for a little while.