February 6, 2015 - 17:59
As I was approaching my spot, the trees glowed a firey red. Looking back in the direction I had come, the sun danced a peachy glow across the horizon. The ground had hardened making a flaky crunch sound as I moved across it.
Many large trees have fallen northeast of me. Bark has peeled off the thick branches crowding my spot. The woods seem clearer, but less explicit, identifiable.
The leaves shake against each other. The branches seem more luminous, fragile, and towering. They are strong, yet flexible.
The grey snow casts shadows off of different mounds, overshadowing, cross shadowing, until it is difficult to tell what is a shadow and what is not.
The chirps and tweets are difficult to distinguish. The woods feel enclosing, yet flexible and opening. It as though some are let in and others are sheltered.
Somehow I am still not far enough. Not away. Not gone, but present with my life outside of these woods connecting with my previous experiences and current time here.
Pink streaks crash the light blue blur above me.
Purple spirals in-between the blue and pink.
I know that we only see the effect of wind, the noise when it tinkers leaves together, but somehow I feel that wind makes a sound of its own. I seem to know what that feels like. It’s recognizable, understandable, yet out of my reach.
“It would seem from this fact, that man is naturally a wild animal, and that when taken from the woods, he is never happy in his natural state, 'till he returns to them again.”
― Benjamin Rush, A Memorial Containing Travels Through Life or Sundry Incidents in the Life of Dr Benjamin Rush