Brazen Hillside

Nature rarer uses yellow
    Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets, —
    Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman,
    Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
    Like a lover's words.


XXXI, Nature rarer uses yellow, by Emily Dickinson


It’s curious how observing the simplest action from an animal in the wild can feel like some sort of revelation, as if you’ve been granted sudden insight to the inner workings of a grand master plan. I don’t mean this happens all the time, just that certain circumstances hold this sort of aura.

While hiking through the woods it’s hard escape the bubble of noise and racket created by your own progress, along with the wider circle of silence which comes as everything around you hunkers down until you pass by. If you stop and sit quietly for long enough, however, you might feel that silence dissipate as things gradually return to their natural order. Then, if you’re lucky, something might happen.

On my hike today it was a chipmunk that appeared, looked around, and hustled over some rocks nearby towards a big oak tree along the shore. After some scuffling in the leaves it reappeared with puffy cheeks, took a minute to look around, and headed back the way it had come. 

So there it was. I gained such a satisfying sense of place, and felt I knew this short stretch of trail, with its rocky scree slope,  brown grass, carpet of dead leaves, and stands of oaks and cedar, so much better than before. It felt like being accepted. Or maybe like having a wish granted. Although, to be clear, I was just watching a chipmunk do what a chipmunk does in the fall. 


Like I said, it's a curious thing.