FOURTEEN TWENTY-TWO AND BEYOND (NATURE WALKING NARRATIVES)

The beloved said there was a bat, and that I should look. But I could not see it at first. Then, against the late dusk sky, in the last minutes of dusk as it learned and then knew how to be night, I noticed it. Fluttering, going, from between large houses lit by soft yellow electrical lights. Cool grey bricks. A tennis court, down some along a hillside, but of course, level. Inside those places, those abodes, people work and think and dream and cook and live. Outside, not too far, is some wild land. There are coyotes there, families and groups of them. The male and female coyote, if all goes well, stay together and mate for life. The children stay in dens, well hidden. Coyotes are perhaps the most resilient creatures around. They have survived fire, gunshot, poison, and so on. It is said, through my research, that they will eat whatever is available, become vegetarian if necessary, - and what’s more, if there species is threatened, might procreate even more progeny. Oh, there is...

One thousand four hundred and twenty eight walks in the forest. Approximately four year’s worth. Three pairs of shoes from big box store, imitation skateboard shoes, 25 dollars each, remarkably comfortable and durable, with thick tongue, size fourteen, light beige (they only come in one color but have added a similar grey model as of late). One pair winter boots Kodiak ergonomic and bright colors. Steel toed, light considering, and intentionally or otherwise, basically waterproof. Regular price about almost three hundred dollars plus tax, but were found at warehouse sale for forty dollars, the find of the century. Now, I also rebel because even they get heavy and wear the ‘running’ shoes when it’s too icy or wet. One pair of ice grips, (don’t know what they are called), given to me without asking by some kind old lady who must have seen danger ahead. They work well, but one sure as heck must make sure they are secured properly to the boot or they will fly off. ...

Nobody there. Nobody there save for some truck that parked near a small path after. But for then, nobody there. Majestic woodlands. There is a break in the rain. The wildflowers have risen and want to know the sun, have to know the light. Upon closer looking, there are, in many of them, insects peculiar and small hiding in the stems, the flowers, the everything. Orange ones, ones of different colors. Odd and some seem nice but others slightly off and still others ugly. No worry. The fields are large and some bird like a quail is startled and runs to the sky,- pretty, somehow colorful, above all succinct for its shape and aptitude at sudden flight. There is goes in a bee line to the other direction, - and it’s against globs of unformed clouds that have matched themselves with one another across the entire sky. Save for the bit where the sun comes through. Yes, - wildflowers underneath. The others are they a bit wilted or is it my imagination/projection. Something startles in the dist...

At early dusk I could sense a slight change. The air. The sky. It’s almost not perceptible. Well, the sunny day has gone away then. It’s like there is some long electrical time of air, hours even, that prepare the way for more rain.   This is the season of rain; these are the days of rain, and the nights also. The little rivers overflow. The wires that hold rocks in ravine sides shake. I think of ideas like nonduality, eternity, enlightenment, reincarnation. All these groups that talk of such have parts of the puzzle, and ultimately preach the same thing. The cosmology is easy, - simple in fact, - all is one divided up, and each comes again and again, learning, changing, but always being, at root, - the same source, and the same oneness, connected as a matter of fact to the Godhead. But we are here, not in the yogic big dream- so we negotiate and navigate. Green light. Red Light. Toe Nails. The wind knocks over some flower containers somewhere. Main Street is not for me, l...

Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and those who find it are few. -Christ (Matthew 7:13-14) The path is definitely narrow there and becomes smaller by the instant. It was hardly there to begin with, and this is because it is so out of the way, meandering, labyrinthine-like, up and up as it follows the contour of the valley ridge. There are parts where if you were to lose your footing, one would fall over thirty or forty feet down. Not straight, no exaggeration here, - and not without some trees to block your fall, - but still, it would not be deemed fun. The path. It is interesting and many things hide on it and at the sides. Once, as I walked it, an actual black snake was coming down. Whether a snake is a snake or a snake is a shape shifter, or a snake is the outward appearance of the auspicious kundalini, or the appear...

             The sun, risen and bright, and one can see why people of the past thought of such as a deity. The whole world joyous and bountiful again, above all else, simply alive. Green fields and terrene loams, rich, textured, like in a picaresque astral plane, yes. The bright. The bright of the star that outshines even the clouds and makes to melt, visually at least, their edges and thus their shapes. We shall soon go, and venture further into the forests and fields. Lady bug, yellow butterfly, jubilancy, and some little strange mist. Dancing leaves, new thriving mushrooms under the pine trees living amongst the needles and surrounding wildflowers. And what of the wildflowers themselves? - Does nobody notice them save to say, - It’s beautiful. ? They should be lightly touched, photographed, written about, and even, in a natural and awestruck way, worshipped. All under the sun, risen and bright, and as mentioned, one can see why people of th...

In the night there is a soft wind, more of a breeze. It goes around the electrical lights and the large street is busy with a certain hustle and bustle of early summer. Cars, signage, drive-through places. They have taken down the old burger place, and this I lament. It was not patronized much by me, as it was out of the way, and I often, more often than not, forgot about such. But the pastel blue, broken, and the bricks, broken, and the signs, gone, and so on and on. I opt for a coffee instead anyhow. Instead of what? Instead of the new, the prosaic, the modern place. Loud people are around, and engines, but it is just life. Life at night. The old church is empty, mysterious, and soft lights light up its area, its perimeter. I think to myself, This little city is older than my little city. And it is, - more mature, larger trees, a greater diversity of people and culture, though I would not call it cultured per se, - it is almost, - or a bit. There is something about it that is no...