Patterns in the wood.

I spend the hours seeing colour palettes in wooden planks; dark mahogany reds with ash grey, baby room swatches of salmon and dusty pinks, eggshell blue and the scaly iridescent teal emerging from the freshly cut pine. The trees tell stories of their past; stained moss greens and deep forest emerald. Their colours act as testament to their history, and I wonder if any of them see the magic here.

There are patterns like python snakeskin, like coffee stained maps. Patterns like aboriginal paintings, she tells me. Later I call her crazy but really she is the most real person here; quirky but wealthy in knowledge of the woods, the reason this job exists. Passionate about the lives of the trees and in arms with but still in awe of the local national parks. She calls me Phoebe and I like it too much to correct her.

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