Gray and white flashes weave through the willows to the oaks, throwing splashes of dew into the air to catch and radiate the morning sun. The incessant chatter of small mammals wakes the birds, who begin their songs. It would be happy if an emotion can be derived from such noise. The rich overtones of sparrows soon blend with the cooing of doves as they shake the night air off their shining feathers.

A snake moves along the forest floor. Its scales shimmer like diamonds, its fangs like pearls, as it searches for prey. The flicker of the black tongue, the rustle of leaves marks the trail of the gliding serpent. Long, narrow pupils are almost visible before another flash of ebony. Is that real, or merely an overturned leaf? A small mouse lies panting on the knotted root of an overgrown maple. The deep luster it had in life becomes dull as it dies, and the snake begins its meal. The ashen root throws shadows over the ground in looping forms much like the snake beside it as mirrored butterflies search for white flowers.

I wonder if the snake has seen me, or if it even cares. The beauty of this life is that of a killer that is not seen even as it strikes. Black and silver faceted scales intertwine down its length, meeting finally at the very tip of its tail in a simple curving line. It strikes me as iridescent, but that is not quite the word; iridescence implies the hues of a rainbow. There is no color here.

I could have sworn I have seen blue today; I think it was my nail polish. As I gaze at my fingers now there is just a deep chrome, turning black as my nails meet my flesh. Anywhere else they would have been cobalt. The path to the forest is lined with dead yellow grass, withered and pale beneath the white sun. It becomes paler as the first trees come into view and the change, if noticed, is welcomed with bliss instead of alarm. The warmth of the silvers and whites embrace me as I dance along the path.

Whips of pearl that flow through my hair with the same gentle caress as the dew on the willow leave my red hair a deep charcoal in its wake. It becomes filled with life as the shadows are fully appreciated. My deep black eyes never looked so clear as I gaze at my reflection in a tiny pocket mirror. It always happens when I am not looking, I become like a photograph when color leaves me. My monochromatic lips part in a half smile with at their soft velvety sheen. A light lick makes them sparkle in the pale light.

A tiny dew drop spots my hand as I pass through the outlying willows. Shaking them off, I look closely at the trees. There are tiny cracks in the bark as it grows; I never noticed that before. The shadowed depths of holes are only broken by the white flash of a squirrel foraging for nuts. The crisp air should smell like trees. The scent here is more like a favorite blanket, warm and tangible. Memories of home thread through my mind before I am showered with the dew that was too light to fall.

I wish it had evaporated, now my hair needs to be washed. I see the snake again, coiled around itself in the protective hollow of a dead oak. The decaying trunk seems too dark to be real and too dead to be here. It is out of place in a realm of such splendor.

The grass beneath my bare feet crunches slightly as I move a little bit closer. My tentative steps will surely wake the serpent if I am not careful. Broken branches of what might have been oak lie forgotten around the withered roots, home now only to matte black ants lightly stinging my feet as I pass. This light makes them look like jointed sculptures. I wish they would not sting me though; now my feet are spotted with shining gray lumps. Maybe I should have worn shoes.

The bark of the rotten wood sticks out, forming deep crevices where the act of dying split the very wood apart. Of course, I know that, over the course of time, it has become rotten with the heavy onslaught of rain and lightning. I have seen it from a distance; it always appears white. Everywhere else there is yellow or blue cast that makes it less frightening. The reflection off the clouds here is a deadly silver, and the marks from lightening are dark crumbling ash.

The snake lies sleeping, maybe three feet in front of me. The shining white belly is barely exposed, distended from the meal to reveal translucent black skin. It looks etched although it breaths. I cannot see its head anymore. I make sure I am behind it: those eyes would surely see me if I were elsewhere. The jagged top of a root becomes a crag over which the snake has rested. The body, where it rests, becomes lumpy there, unattractive. I wish I could move that belly.

The birds are no longer chirping although I can almost see them flying above. One of them has a worm in its mouth. Hunting must be good today. Maybe it has some little gray babies that can only eat little black worms. This strikes me as funny, and I clap my hands to my mouth to avoid waking my subject.

The snake moves, curling slightly further and turning just slightly. I reach my fingertips out slowly, carefully; I only want to touch it. The forest is no longer silent. Squirrels are running in the trees to the left, maybe foraging for fallen seeds or other small treats. The butterflies have since moved further inside to seek the flowering trees near the center of this place. Something slithers over my feet, making me jump. What is that thing? Maybe a slug or something else of that nature? I cannot see it anymore.

Did my hand hit the tree? The sudden movement frightens the snake, leaving me without a subject and a large cut on the palm of my hand. My backpack is at home today. Of course I would not need it, I never get hurt! This thought amuses my as I watch my glistening gray blood run down my hand over my blue fingertips. Blue?

I quickly gaze around me, watching the gray squirrels jump through emerald leaves. Green. I feel cold; the magic of this place is gone. Even the scent has changed: it is no longer warm and welcoming. I can smell the clean scent of leaves followed by the bitter undertones of animals and death. It has become an ordinary forest, one among many. The lavender doves call to each other through the thick overgrowth, and the cold brown tree stump merely stares back at me. I cannot stand this!