"She might be trying to doh-mess-tick-ate you," the hairy man hissed the messs part of the word.  He ground the mud more into the bottom of his boot instead of stomping it off.  "I'll take my chances.  She won't be able to," the one with the trimmed beard growled.  "Guess I'll be goin' then." 

     "Ayup." 

     Winter was coming on harder than summer had ended.  The soft glows of leaves yellowing while basking in sunlight were turning trees into silouhetted things.  Like clouds, trees could be given attributes.  (i)Bent Old Fool(i) a local practiced on the trees.  "I won't ever remember all that other stuff about (i)likes(i) and (i)ases(i)," she said.  "But letting Nature show me.  What it is," her voice dropped into reverence.  "I can do that." 

     "You're a real good storyteller too!  Don't forget." 

     "I will try.  You know I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached." 

     "Don't run yourself down.  We've all turned a corner." 

     "Okay," she gave me a gentle smile and picked up her walking stick and made way back to the little gravel road. 

     We had.  Turned a corner.  And it had not been easy.  But we'd gotten children back in school and caught up with shoes on their feet.  We'd matched social work people with "shut ins" and people so "unkempt" the State "might have to step in and relieve you of the burdens you face." We'd had mini-festivals and crafted ourselves silly to help staple community people pay back taxes.  We'd crossed unbearably difficult chasms to talk to one another about "problems" and "issues".  We'd also gotten a next generation war-ready.  There was no doubt that we'd accomplished some stuff.  "Where do we go from here?" Some child doctors from other countries asked a leader leaving the Forest one afternoon.  The question lingered for many of us hanger-oners too.