Enter into a forest in May. The foliage above is little more than pale buds, and the forest floor is in full bloom: violets in purple and white, pallid yellow bellwort, white trillium sparkling in the distance. Some of the trees flower too: redbud, dogwood, and a jagged little apple tree.
The whole forest stands on a large slope. It's hard to see all the way uphill, but downhill a cornfield is faintly visible. The apple tree is the only of its kind on the slope, bleeding profusely with white petals. It could be older than all the rest of the forest, and probably is.
The sun is behind a screen of clouds, and even though the thin foliage lets a lot of light through, it is quite cold. Something about the place feels vulnerable. It's not a happy thought.