Beneath the Birch

You know who you are. The one who stops mid-hike, crouches down, and says “look at this one” while everyone else keeps walking.

This is for you. Two red-capped fly agarics, still freckled white, growing where they always do, at the foot of a birch. A crescent moon above. A scatter of stars on a night-blue ground. A whimsical little corner of the woods, machine embroidered and edged in gold, with a gold tassel.

Now you can stop for it on every page.

On the back, our moon mark.