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Tiny raindrops clung to the tri-leafed Trillium luteaum. Red flowerettes sparkled in a sunbeam that danced like fairies in a wispy smokescreen. The moist Smokey Mountain May air hung around the beam of light.
Mottled leaves of the Trilleum were good for toad shade as Eliot Porter the famous camera artist would say. Yet no toads croaked in the deep forests even after the light spring shower.
Footfalls encroached upon the silent pathway in this Appalacian Highland forest opening. A low note from a throaty alto purrred in the pine needle outdoor studio. A woman, tall, lithe, graceful, alone, began to sing quietly. "Be still my soul..." The mournful inspiration grew then resonated outward. She put verses together easily; she created a song she would remember to jot down and play at her piano later in the afternoon.
The red, red carpet of Trillium flowed uphill to her cabin doorway. This favorite flower was cultivated by her for her spring pleasure.
"All is well." She whispered to the breeze.
She went indoors and sat down at the keyboard in the quiet afternoon to finish composing her newest work.
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