Someone has been barbering the forest floor. A moss that looks like it was trimmed by a careful hand. Pincushion moss forms dense, rounded, pale greyish-green cushions that look exactly like they have been trimmed by a careful hand – tight and compact, as if a gardener came through with shears and clipped the landscape into neat little pillows. A moss that does not need a gardener. This is one of the neatest, tidiest mosses in New Zealand. The cushions appear almost artificial, the sort of thing that might be bought at a garden centre to stick pins into. Leaves pack so tightly together that no gaps remain, creating a smooth, rounded surface that sheds water like a thatched roof. Landscape architects would weep with joy. A moss that is too perfect to be wild. Each leaf is thick and spongy, constructed from large, dead, water-holding cells called hyaline cells, surrounded by a living network of green cells. This gives the moss its pale colour and soft, springy texture. The leaves curve to a point, overlapping like fish scales. A moss that is soft but tough. Growth is slow. A cushion ten centimetres across may be decades old. Reproduction happens via spores released from capsules on short stalks, but the real pleasure is tactile: press a hand into a cushion and feel the dense, springy resistance. To find pincushion moss is to spot those pale green domes on the forest floor, on rotting logs, beside streams. Tight, compact, tidy – a living pincushion on the ground. The forest floor is damp. The moss sits, pale green and rounded, tight and tidy. A finger presses. The moss springs back. It has been here for decades. It will be here for decades more. It does not hurry. It never has.