SINGING OUR SILENT SONG

The long slow pathways and nobody is there. Ours is the forest and the forest is ours. Something rustles the trees and we stop, look, wait, continue. The berries didn’t bloom this year, not nearly as well as last for there are on and off years. Someone said years ago there was a fire, - a man, a kind enough man, accidentally left a camp fire burning,- and kaboooosh and whoosh, and the place eventually was saved but not before it looked like a burned out movie set. That was before my time. This day, there is not much sign of that time save for some burnt trees. There is an old car, and an uprooted tree, a strange moth that looks like a monster from a dream. And what else? The quietude, the gracefulness of the gait and stride and all the movement of the canines. Some water down the valley way, and butterflies, but no frogs or snakes this day as they are hiding. It is average, prosaic,- to the outsider,- but there is nothing normal about it for it houses magic and is magic and the high vibration of nature and her secrets can be felt in the air. Once closes eyes for a second to discern something, some message, some soul-secret. There is a creek, and a little wooden bridge, a bee working furiously, and wildflowers that guard the sides of the forest and the field purlieu. A bird flies. A squirrel runs. We walk along, continue along, singing our silent song.


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