Path in the Forest

First, news of the real world. Maxwell, the smallish, happy mutt mix of my home, had a seizure yesterday. They aren't too bad, although I am speaking from this side of the fence. But they frighten him. He does manage to make it to the floor, and I hold him, as he trembles and licks his lips, and drools. In a small while, he acts as happy as he always does. He sleeps now, beside me.

At least I was able to be there for him, having just returned home. The unicorn meat eating cats are well, as always, although impatient, very, for the temperatures to rise, and the winds to subside. They know in their bones that spring is here. The very earth speaks to them, as does the geese flying over, headed north. That the weather frustrates them, is just something in their small cat lives, that they must live with.

The only light in Washington D.C. is the signing into law of the Violence Against Women Act. The expanded version, mind you.

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The floor of the grove is a long oval, set with the green grass of spring. It is spring. The sunlight is marvelously new, and clear and soft, almost white. Trees lean in overhead, I am enclosed in a green globe. The sun is coming up behind me, and shafts of light illuminate the Tree. It's a very old oak, and the bark is grey, at least in my remembrance. I tilt my head back to see the leaves far above me. But I am surrounded by leaves, of younger trees, vines, small bushes in the underbrush.

I look behind me, and see a small tunnel of vines, covered in greenery, and the hint of white blossoms. It is as if the grove has created a wedding bower, all on it's own. I was to find out later that the vines were tall enough to ride under them on a horse, and it was a delight to do so, many times.

I look toward the Oak again, and there is a small creek, at my left hand. Stunned by the quality of greens and gold,  I cannot move. Eventually, I walk over to a very large grapevine, which hangs suspended from the nearest trees. It is large enough, and bent, so that I can sit on it. A few steps more, and I am at the creek, which makes a placid sound. It is the voice of the creek I hear and it is a very small murmur. Moss coats the bank, and I look onto the sand and water-shaped rocks below. The scent of the forest rises from the creek, a loamy, leaf-ridden smell that reminds me of the scent of rain and snow.

I walk back to the vine, and carefully sink to the ground. I smile and pull in the clean air. Thoughts fade  as joy takes their place. I can stay here forever, in this green wildness. There is no path through it. The path passes by, up the hill, to the top of the mountain, preserving this spot. Could it be really true that, long ago, the whole world was like this?

But that the forest and the rocky path pass other places of beauty, there is none like this place. There is nothing like this whirl of spring color, with no flowers in sight. I see green, and gray, and gold sand. The wet leaves under the brush, gleam an earth brown, and the tunnel of vines holds only a promise of the hundreds of white and pink blossoms that will bloom later, when the blackberry blooms.

The blue sky is irrelevant here. There is only this green, and the morning light. Here, in this small corner of the world, are green places that you cannot be separated from. Take refuge, and listen to the sounds of birds carried by the wind.