We trek through the woods, newly
carpeted with rusty pine needles and
the yellow, red and orange of shedding
leafage. Seems oddly like an autumn
snowstorm with the wind rushing
through the overhead canopy, loosing
foliage in a great tumble and swirl
of fall's inevitable seasonal turn.
The heavy overcast light, dim though
it is, emphatically enhances the vistas'
colourful hues, transforming the landscape
with a mysterious, arcane appearance, as
though we have somehow stumbled upon
a secret, hidden wood known only and
singularly to creatures fey and elusive,
quite unlike ourselves, mere humans
revelling in the glories of the season.
It is cold and blustery, the clacking
sounds of treetops in close nodding
acquaintance counterpoints the swoosh
and high murmur of the wind's insistence.
Under wild apple trees, a litter of vibrant
red apples. Some come to rest in the
unlikeliest places; the crook of trees,
hollowed woodpecker ravages, and
abandoned bird nests. From the inner
forest, the shrill call of bluejays.
Hawks circle above, cresting on the wind.
The morning rain resumes, plump drops
pinging on our rainjacket hoods. The
narrow tributaries of the ravine's main
creek skelter downstream in a swift rush,
carrying detritus along their mud-filled
lengths. This familiar, yet ephemeral landscape
invigorates us and our small companions.
There is no particular rush to leave
this place of transcendent beauty.
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