The night was cold. I dream of a wind swept farm field covered in snow. In my dream, a form I could recognize, yet not touch, fire in his hair, fire in his eyes, speaking to me though I could not hear, mouth moving as if to taste, and I woke up. For a moment I don't know where I am, then I look around, smile and go back to sleep.When I woke again, the neighborhood is hushed. I'm not sure what time it is, as I don't see a clock on the wall or wear a wristwatch. I have an antique one, left to me by my mother, given to me, not so that I remember time, for hers was short, but to forget it. Forget it, as I move out into the world, gathering the wind to propel my journey, not holding my breath to conquer it, the folly of many a philosopher and fool.
The household is quiet. Barkley snoozing in a patch of sunlight somewhere, dreaming the dreams of solared powered dogs. I have a few hours off this morning before a long journey. The road will come soon enough, for now I can just enjoy the house, some writing, some coffee. Outside, the yard is perfect with the stillness of dew, the sun glinting between low branches. No dog tracks, yet, no human or squirrel tracks, only a line of old trees standing with the enduring and ageless patience of static stillness, waiting for something. Perhaps they simply wait for me to venture out into the burgeoning chill of a not quite Fall morning.
The neighborhood slumbering, I look out, innumerable shadows on the ground as still as if they had been laid down upon it as stencils, sunlight just a pencil tracing, drawing dark and light. The morning is here, now. Where I came from last night is only a distant memory. Parked out in the back, an obsidian truck, from which I compass forever between these two points, moved by blood, duty and need.Back behind the trees, the sound of a train dying away to the click of a watch that is not there, running through another day, somewhere far away for now, fire in his eyes, fire in his hair. The sound hangs in the air like punctuation, the clouds curled up above in small catnaps of infinity, only my small form, and perhaps a camera, to capture them. The train moves away, in unshaken pull and balance, consuming inertia itself, its desire only a breath of steam in the cold air.
The light is soft, a blue cold fragility that speaks of shattered thought, not enough light quite yet for photos, no tangible remembrance of the feeling, only words that gather up their own steam, even as they fade away into silence.The morning reminds of one out in the woods long ago at a friends farm, setting out to check on an old tree blind before whitetail activity started. It had been some time since we'd visited, since I'd made my way out there. The woods looked ancient, evergreen trees bearing their load of snow on sagging shoulder, a few trees holding on to to threadbare leaves, gathered around their branches like a shawl. It had been an early snow, masking all the normal markings I would have used to find my way back to the house. As I went deeper into the woods, I broke off a few small branches, small signs that I was on the right path, even as whole trees had fallen over paths I used to take.
From above, a hawk dives down, rending the sky like faded blue cloth, its tattered remnants flung behind as he swoops down, in search of something he needs to sustain. I'd not have seen him had I not remained totally still, his dive a brief blur, a mote from God's eye falling from heaven.
The blind was still there, still secure, so I begin the journey back, looking carefully to make sure I was on the right path, to light and safety. From a distance I could see the warm glow of the house. From the trees I heard the gentle huff of a buck, a greeting, a warning, his breath clouding the air in anticipation of that which he knows that he wants. I catch only a glimpse of rack, the width of which indicates he has survived numerous hunts. He watches me, a Trojan who has time and patience and the occasional Browning 20 gauge on her side.On this day, though, he has nothing to fear from me, the dance between man and nature, the slow waltz of blood and need, stilled, for now. He and I, today, are simply part of this same forest, one with the land. Though by my intellect and God's grace I have dominion over him, I will tender my stewardship carefully. The recognition of freedom, the desire for life, full, rich and red, is as conscious in me as him, and always there, even when my higher nature slumbers. It courses through this earth, and each of us, a deep red vein awaiting the divining rod of recognition.
He turns, with a flick of a white tail and disappears into the shadows, deeper into hundred year old woods. I wished I'd had a camera, to capture that, to capture all that I can't see, can't remember, so much here beyond the grasp of anything born or invented. Perhaps I could find words for it, if only silently, the apotheosis of our need voicing a thousand avatars.
Another evening, another stand of trees, these the ones that line the driveway.. Even as I'll roll in after traveling across several states this week, the path will be clear, the way familiar. As often is the cause on arrival, I will be tired and hungry, anxious for the warmth of home, a little supper. Coming up past the house, those large pine trees brush up against the truck as I'll drive in, back deep behind the house.
The back of the property by the shop is quite dark; for a moment, with the darkness and my weariness, I'll hesitate, not sure which way to turn. Then I'll notice the bent branch from my truck as I came in, marking my path. I grab my bag, even as I hear a familiar greeting, his breath clouding the air.Gear is left in the enclosed porch, the black bag brought into the house for now. A black lab comes in with a rush of air, his tail a baton against the music that now plays from somewhere within. The ancient gas stove fires its evening gun, as meat is prepared and consumed with thankful prayer.
Once again, the neighborhood is hushed, hundred year old wood, framing the room. From within, a soft playful bark, the sound of voices, a blended murmur, fading as a door softly closes. Inside a small wooden drawer, an antique watch ticks without sound.
Our journeys take us many places. It is said the best ones lead us towards home, towards shelter, towards safety. But the best ones of all, however long they take, lead us gently back to ourselves
