Shadows casted from overhung trees, flickering, light dancing on the moss that hung below. Creating a dusk-like shadow in the hour of noon. Looking up with hand on brow, a pinecone falls swiftly to the ground. Scooped by a little stream that lost its way amid the grass and ferns, swiveling among the giants to its dwelling place. Taking root by gleams of sunlight and resting on the brink of that stream, a small beginning. The seedling stares up at its potential, what seems possibly impossible. Protected by the shade of its brothers, a hand is lent. The sun goes down and comes ‘round again, again, again. Weather changes and seasons change, witnessing every second of every passing day. And as time passes, the surrounding life takes shelter in its own shade: a deer mouse loves its cavity, and a titmouse, its’ shoulder. Now standing a glory, a blessing evermore. Reaching for the sunlight, it looks below, seeing just how far it’s grown. The once swift stream, appears now a trickle, carrying what it once was, so long ago. And In its full strength lending a hand to the seedling placed below its feet, just what had been done before. Understanding a hand is most felt in the midst of the small beginnings.