A rabbit sat perfectly still beside the river.
Then I noticed a second one.
Spring does this.
It asks you to stop.
And if you stop, it shows you things.
Two rabbits playing, goat willow buds breaking their sheaths, a purple hue so quiet you’d miss it if you were moving at your usual speed.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the distance, a lorry reverses. A thug runs a country. The week has been loud and ugly and frightening. And the navelwort is sweet.
This is the thing about wild food in spring. The young navelwort doesn’t care about the news cycle.
It does what it always does when the cold is still in the air – it becomes delicious. Not cooked. Not prepared. Just picked and eaten, standing next to a wall, wind on your skin.
The world can be run by psychopaths. The goat willow will still bud. The navelwort will still sweeten in the cold.
Paying attention is not escapism. It’s the only reliable medicine for the madness of empire.
For the deeply curious.