The season of nostalgia is upon us. In the
ravine below the forest the stream is turbulent
from the run-off of yesterday's rain. Downed
trunks of old pines felled by a passing derecho
litter the forest floor. Here and there a gathering
of bright crimson leaves decorate the forlorn
old corpses. A light haze of pale gold permeates
the forest canopy. Boisterous gusts of wind
unleash a fluttering of foliage. A dragonfly
floats languidly by, hesitates then is gone.
The sound of a woodpecker rattles the
silent woods, interrupted by the shrill cry of
a bluejay, passing through. Overhead a
regimented formation of Canada geese on
their yearly migration bidding hoarse adieu to
the land of ice and snow where owls will rest
on frozen branches during snowed-in winter
months their raptor instincts diminishing the
presence of the forest's small furred creatures.
No comments:
Post a Comment