The Gentle Rider

The Gentle Rider – A Spring Story 💐

Sage didn’t need to make an announcement. She never did. But everyone in the forest knew: when the snow had melted, when the first wildflowers returned, when the light stretched just a little longer into evening—Sage would host her spring dinner.

It was never flashy. Just a long wooden table tucked under the trees, a quilted runner she’d stitched herself, and a quiet invitation passed from one friend to the next. But it was, without question, the most anticipated evening of the season. Not for what was served (though her herb-roasted roots and soft elderflower bread were forest-famous), but for how it made everyone feel. Cared for. Welcomed. Home.

She started the day with a ride.

Not to get anywhere in particular—just to collect. Her bicycle basket, lined with soft velveteen, waited patiently as she glided through familiar paths, stopping wherever the forest offered a bloom in just the right shade. Soft pinks. Deep purples. Wisps of white and green. She didn’t take many. Just a few from each patch, enough to brighten the center of the table and tuck into place settings with twine and sprigs of rosemary.

The ride itself was slow. Sage didn’t rush. She moved like the forest moved—quietly, rhythmically, as if she was part of the breeze that stirred the leaves. Every now and then she’d pause, not to catch her breath, but to listen. To a distant woodpecker. To the hush of pine needles under her tires. To the soft sound of the world beginning again.

By mid-afternoon, the basket was full and her heart was steady. She returned home and arranged everything with graceful ease—the table set with natural decor, the flowers in hand-carved vases, a few candles tucked into moss-lined holders. Nothing extravagant. Everything intentional.

When her friends arrived that evening—Fox in her scarf, Crow in his jacket, even Raccoon with a stick in his fur and a suspiciously empty paw still littered with crumbs—they didn’t say much at first. They just breathed it in. The scent of pine. The warmth of a low fire. The glow of golden hour on petals and fur.

Sage greeted them with a smile that said welcome back, and everyone took their seats like no time had passed at all.

Sage moved quietly between them, pouring tea into handmade mugs, placing warm bread into open paws, adding a sprig of mint where it felt needed. She didn’t speak much, but she didn’t have to. The forest was still waking up, and this—this gathering of familiar faces and shared silence—was her way of saying, “We made it through.”

As the sun dipped lower and the first stars blinked into view, Sage sat down at the head of the table, her own plate finally full. Around her, laughter began to stir. Not loud. Not hurried. Just enough. She looked at the wildflowers in the center—slightly wilted now from the day’s warmth—and smiled.

Spring had officially begun.