The forest

This is my forest, my woods. I know it like the back of my hand, like my own soul. Every contour and secret. Able to read every movement and sign from knowing this place intimately through so many seasons and moons growing up.

Following deer tracks in the snow. Where they have bedded down and pawed through the snow under the beech trees looking for food. Here a fox tiptoed along the creek bank and over there I can see the snow packed and dragged flat by the bulk of a raccoon hauling himself along. Many birds in the trees, titmice, cardinals, nuthatches, and chickadees. And then like an arrogant chattering train whistle from nowhere two kingfishers came swooping through the tree boughs pursuing one another. An apperition, an omen to interpret. Full of spirit and mystery.

This place has always been that way for me.