The roots and herbs we just picked are now floating in the rain puddle that has overcome her satchel. I start to run, and she chases. She laughs like a madwoman, hopping over roots, dodging branches. Her bag slaps against her thigh as she runs, sloshing water out as more rain pours in.
Suddenly she stops. She searches, scanning the forest for a recently taken path or the sound of feet against the mud to follow.
I grab her from behind and she shrieks. She shrieks with a pitch so high I fear baby birds may fall from flooded nests, but I can only lose myself to laughter as water splashes from her fists, slapping against my chest in playful aggression.
She settles into me, her baggy jacket a burdensome barrier between us. We begin to dry beneath sheltering leaves as it turns from downpour to drizzle. Sunshine streams in as the clouds move on, and although it is warming, she still shivers.
I lift her eyes to mind, and I kiss her lips still. The forest emerges from the fog surrounding us.
Limbs intertwine like vines, impossible to follow where one begins and one ends.
We are just another pair of plants among the trees, reaching our necks toward the sun.