In a beechwood forest the cups rose up and carpeted the ground in perennial blues. Those fortunate enough can walk the dirt paths between this colored fleece alongside the highway. Listening to the passing cars and semis, we crossed a bridge towards the columned rows of hardwoods, barren at ground level for their broad and domineering root structure. Like the roots, trails etched lines in the forest floor and laid their own empty paths among the rare blanket of color. It was almost a shame to waste the ground with space to walk.