Morning Woods

I choose a different deer path this morning through the old pasture. Cedars were the first to claim the hill, their thick bodies now struggling for their share of the sky. Even the locusts are giving way to hardwoods and young beeches, shivering in their winter foliage. The sound of some power tool at the head of the hollow gives me pause for just a moment (humans!) and then the quiet settles back in. A glimpse of white down below draws me to a fallen log where tree fungus grew as big as plates-serving dishes from some small folks’ dinner perhaps. A pile of yellowhammer feathers under the log suggests some owl’s breakfast.
I’ve been a steward of this land now for nearly thirty years and I’m always reminded of how we OWN nothing.
I think, can’t I just meld into this, be a part of the life and death and renewal contained in these sweet woods. It would be so much simpler. Then a voice reminded me, “You didn’t ask for simple”.

View this story's 4 comments.