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Spring is about planting all the greens and squashes you'll need for the year. Pulling up garlic, burying forget-me-nots and water thieves and golden, new planks in the place of the grey boards from the garden beds of last year. And that's good. It's good to feel the dirt crumble in your hands, while the sun beats down on your head and neck.

You harvest at the end of summer, though, and after the warmth it's fall and time to put on your thick coats, your scarves, your gloves. Strong boots. It's time to go away with the fairies of the wild and untamed roads, to take the turn where the curves go skinny and scary and logging trucks might run you down and into the ravines.

There's no turning around once you're up there. It's getting dark. You'll have to pin that road down so it stays put. So while you're up there digging in the wet leaves, crawling over fallen trees, over the decomposing grace of the forest floor, you have to find where the spores have fallen. You'll get bags and bags of the mushrooms if you know where to look. And then there's the markers for the road.

Your trail of breadcrumbs, so you can find your way back, maybe, to the fairyland of some misty hill. Or back down the mountains to spring, and the greens, and the garlic that hasn't grown up yet.

Bright orange, shiny, reflective. Embedded in the remnants of trees, the ones that don't grow anything, the stumps the moss won't touch. Pry loose the reflectors for the roadsigns, and plant them in the place where tree branches split and dangle over the road. Use the forest duff to set up your markers.

At the end of the day, it's all about the harvest and the road.

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