Curves

This is one of my most favorite places to walk.  It's just a few steps from my door and the dogs love to run there once they see where we are headed.  This is the kind of landscape that I too could tumble across--the kind that makes me want to venture beyond its horizon, tracing the curves of the landscape with my feet and vertical curiosity.  These curves roll right into each other without ownership or apology. For a year I walked here nearly every day and watched the seasons transform the land the way a painter does a canvas, one subtle layer at a time.  The effect is a masterpiece of earth and sky. Today's visit was like stepping into an old familiar hug; the path was quiet and gray, and the trees with their tattered sleeves of golds and reds and greens and browns invited quiet companionship.  I wandered close to their branches and acknowledged the friendliness of familiarity. Except for these trees, I was solo today. I listened to the wind. 

In the distance is a barn.  I like to imagine the farmer who used to whistle every morning as he rummaged around inside.  I watch my dogs as they vigorously sniff the area, imagining their own tales about what has gone on here.  The landscape offers tiny clues.  A pond.  An old orchard.  Stone walls.  Berries.  A telephone pole.  The wood pile. A path worn with tire tracks.  Broken glass.

As I walked back out of the woods towards home, I scanned the landscape again.  Soon these same trees would be bare and the field would be brown.  Or white. I have it memorized--the sight of a gray sky over a brown and white field, punctuated by the lonely, cold and gray silhouettes of the trees.  I chuckled and then shuddered to myself.  But those days aren't here yet, I said out loud to the wind.  For now, the trees offer bouquets of warmth and friendship.  The path home curves the entire way so it's often hard to see what's coming up ahead.  Between now and then is a mystery lined with gold.