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An early morning in July, a walk.
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The Woodland Trail
It was something she said
or maybe it was many things
as we walked the woodland trail.
So at ease, home in these woods
knowing their sounds, ‘Ravioli’
for the Wood Thrush,
‘here I am, I’m up here’ for the Virio.
Songs and calls known by heart
with heartfelt appreciation.
A love of nature
that’s what she gave,
she said it so well.
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The Ravine
We are drawn to these chasms
who knows why. Something about
edging close to our fears.
Standing on the edge of
the precipice looking down
holds a certain fascination for us.
The bottom most interesting
with black stone yielding to
soft sand, a sinuous path traced
by the stream. Ferns and trees
lining the bank, dappled sun and
shade, all restful in it’s way.
How far will you fall
before hitting bottom and
starting your way up again?
We would all like to know.
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Solo Birders
The horses walked by my window
one brown, one white.
Two riders, one walking.
We saw them from a distance
father and daughter, waiting
on the side of the path.
She fair and thin, holding
binoculars with some hesitation,
an eagerness tempered by shyness
like the newly fledged birds
she was observing, youth
personified with beauty and grace.
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The Glade
I didn’t think they would mind
if I chose to linger, having it to
themselves so much of the time.
They’re resting nearby you know,
guardians as it were, thoughtfully
watching over the glade.
You come upon it suddenly,
dazzling and disorienting
like a darkened theatre as
the lights are brought up
revealing the magic of the set.
The clearing in the forest.
Canopy lifts and understory thins,
ground cover like carpet. Filtered
sunlight streaming in from stage right.
Dappled; here shade, there bright sun,
contrast and highlights set the scene,
an artist still at work.
These places in nature
filled with a cathedral reverence
witnessed by many over millennia.
Abode of spirit,
shrine of the woodland,
home of the searcher.
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The Holly
We all long to leave a message
do we not, let someone
know we were here.
Our little quest for
immortality, after all it
does matter, or are we vain.
The Holly has been a
repository of messages,
initials carved, heart encircling.
Hope certainly, and dreams,
some to come true as
branches grow and trunk enlarges.
Sitting by itself now
in a meadow off the trail,
I wonder if it still has visitors.
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The Boardwalk
It was a good idea
though not lasting long
a walkway across the marsh.
I wonder who thought of
that, who foresaw the visitors
coming out to see
a wetland in the city.
Surely there were doubting voices
“someone should clean up that mess”
but nature is a mess, an
unruly, uproarious, rollicking,
gorgeous mess. Just ask
the water lily with its pink
and yellow bloom so tenderly
opened with the morning, ask
the Heron and the Wood Duck
they may see things differently
the mess may be elsewhere.
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