THESE PROMISSORY NOTES FOR THE RAIN PENNED BY THE BREEZE

It’s back to the fields we go. First there are some men working on some hydro lines and the big trucks have cherry pickers up against the blue but mostly gray sky. It’s as if one cloud covers everything. I have not seen the trains around there in the two days I visited. I wonder what is up. And far off, more workers can be heard, - their machines also. The lot is not too full and some people are leaving. One just gets out and proceeds to walk some small white dog along our path. We have to wait it out, but not for too long. We go into the fenced area which is not to our liking, not our mode, - but it is currently empty in there so what the heck, - better than sitting inside the vehicle. But a car pulls up so we take a short run to the other side and start on our way, the way of the path, the path of the way…

 

Sitting for a bit, - we let the dog and owner make some time. It looks warm, but is not.

Sometimes the sun wants to peak out, - but it’s a rarity. Minimal breeze and it feels like a bit of rain might come. These promissory notes for the rain that the breeze writes are penned often. Yet, it’s a long wait for the beloved rain. When shall it come? Sometime. It has to come sometime to saturate the earth and clear out the travellers, to calm and quell the dancing trees. Loquacious rain. Good rain. Sounding all ‘round like a million marbles on the rooftops of places. We will see. But for now, - no rain…

There are some green fields across the way, - and more paths. The ubiquitous pine cones of course, and strange white wildflowers once shelled up in a covering now open, on the ground,- jus there,- and the little feathers of them make patterns, are something, and seem to tell their own story. A branch here and there. A log. An impossibly peculiar root system exposed up the way, right at the other entrance to a forest. The dogs run around. Throw a stick and watch them tinker and chew at it. Going further down, maybe a story below land level, - to another series of paths, and nobody about, which is the greatest and most sublime. Calm. Sun peaks out. Branches broken from a storm. Did I miss a rain? Did it come at night? Did it come in the above board sunlight minutes and hours and I forgot about it? Or was it the wind? Hard to know. Clean breaks. A certain beauty and mystique in the wood and grain, pattern. It’s a side line, - the fields are the chorus. Onwards and upwards we go then…

One time a wild turkey flew out there, - but not today. Wild turkeys can be fast when the intend on such. And it’s certain they can fly. I didn’t even see where it did alight because it went over the tree line to somewhere distant. There is not much going on around the perimeter there, - I can tell, can sense it. And nobody comes over the ridge, which is nice. The solitude is a gift. The others are at the beginning; - making a certain racket we cannot hear.

On top of our summit we rest. Look out at the

view. Its taking a while for the Evergreens to grow, - but they are taller than last year. Some pass, but most thrive. In winter the snow sits down, a billion flakes upon the branches like glitter on glue. In summer the rain stays in certain places as droplets on the pine needles hunter and forest and light and dark green hued.

We look at the old tree again; - the one where the small racoon hid and thought we could not see him. Mostly we just sit for a bit. Some internal mechanism calls for leaving. The minutes have grown to larger times. We go back along the long and winding other side. An animal in distress calls out. At first I think it is in the forest, but I realize soon it is from a ‘far and far’ farm across an entire field. All we can make out is the shape of the side and roof of an old barn. Is it brown? Red? It’s too far off. 

We are almost out and back towards the beginning. A few glances backwards, looking ‘back in turn’. Soon there will be mosquitoes and more birds, splashes of color and distinct lines and shapes of clouds. Perhaps the sky will turn colors and keep turning, capricious but benignly so. I would swear in the meantime I sensed that promissory note the breeze brings, - the one about the future rain. 

How grand those summer storms can be when they do arrive.

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ADVENTURES IN THE PINE CONE WORLD OR UP TO OUR OLD TRICKS AGAIN IN THE SPRAWLING FIELDS

It wasn’t bad, all things considered. Something inside, the inner meter or intuition, called us to go further on up the way and see the old fields. It’s a place we used to go nearly every day until I noticed it was becoming a bit crowded. It’s only five or ten minutes max past the farmer’s field and path. Worst case scenario, if there were over five cars there, I could double back and take the normal route. 

 

It’s good to go to an old place again, as things change...

Someone has either cut back a series of bushes, or planted some new thing. A tree may be gone from lightning. A new path may have been forged by someone. There was a really great and fine energy to begin with, and the dogs sensed it. Almost like a bit of a home-coming to see and run over this, their old stomping grounds.

The sky was not blue and nor was it overcast. The fields were not completely lush or golden and nor were they grey or doldrum-esque. So, it was in the middle. A few things were blooming, - little wildflowers or other. They can be seen to a keen eye and are skipped over by the less observant. No worries. What I did notice was that there was a heck of a lot of pine cones. It seemed to be a theme, a motif, or something. I saw trees fallen over and showing their pine cones. There were cones coming out of the forest on branches like gifts from the growth or some forest deva. Pine cones were strewn over many of the smaller paths. Pine cones, pine cones, pine cones. Some ashen and full of a certain death. Most brown. A few red or at the least reddish…

We went around here and there. Wolfe and Tessa gave themselves a good run in certain parts. The time ticked past. On the way back Tessa rested here and there. Wolfe rarely, if ever, sits or lies down; - it’s just not his style. There are too many things to see or do a plethora of opportunities overt and covert. There are things on his mind that are joyful and acceptable and also actions that are prohibited,- such as jumping over dividing lines or fences and running off to see what is over, sometimes quite literally as it were,- the rainbow!

In the end they came back and slept deeply like their days

of old. Maybe they were dreaming of the pine cone pathways…

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OF MOSS AND THE OLD CAR OR THE MYSTICAL AREA SECRETED AWAY

Though the sun was bright and the rains had gone away there was still a chill all around. It is a liminal time and the warmth or humidity that is desired by most has simply not arrived. But alas, there is no ice or snow, no vexatious winds telling souls to get out of the forests and fields and retreat to abodes. We made our way to the beginning and set off. Not many people or dogs, - a good sign and a fine hour to journey. 

 

Yesterday, the rains had thrown the dogs off. They were recoiled, cautious, - all the odd scents that the water had brought perhaps out of the earth, the trees, the flaxen fields nearby. Twenty four hours later and the landscape, drier if not completely so, - was a better fit. We didn’t see our coyote ‘friend,’ and as mentioned somewhere recently before, I think he passed away. The regular trees, shrubs, feral branches and chaparral housed the sides of our path.

Near the end of that path, it begins to open up and this is where there is an old tree, solitary, watching the area. We didn’t see much of others, but the dogs ran in the sand pit and especially on its ridges, ledges. To head back, I thought it might be well to go through the thicker part of the forest, right along the top of the deep valley. This is where we saw tall trees and the blue sky, (which is no longer taken for granted as it has been grey and uninspired and uninspiring so often this spring season,)- peaked out here and there. Sometimes planes could be heard, the single engine small affairs. I can tell usually whether they are coming or going.

Continuing on, we took the extra-long way, and went down to a beautiful and rarely taken pathway. It leads to the valley floor before meandering up again to a more common passageway that links to the beginning. I would swear, being a sensitive that the energy is vastly if not markedly different once you hit the near bottom of the path. In fact, today I felt the energy change, - the actual foot or inches where it shifts into a more pure, pristine, and therefore naturally benevolent aura. There is an old growth tree that has fallen in a storm, and the ground is covered in pine needles (soft like a carpet). There is moss everywhere, and it grows in numerous shades, sizes, hues, textures. It can be seen on the rocks, the alive trees, the dead ones, parts of the ground. 

On the way up and out from there is an old abandoned car. Passing it, there are only a few minutes left before the outer world is met up with, - the more travelled forest, - and the almost secret and mystical vortex is left behind for hopefully another time.

The energy shifts back.

It’s time to go home and so that is what we do. 

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BEFORE THE STORMS

           

Surprisingly, there were not a lot of people near the paths. A Sunday afternoon at two o’clock is prime time for crowds made up of all kinds. I was pleasantly surprised. Heading inwards I thought of the weather forecast that talked about night rain. That was hours off, but I wondered what it would be like there in the rain and the evening mixed together. A man said that that black trees were from a forest fire years ago, but I had always thought they were from lightning. Hard to know for certain. The sky was mostly gray, and hidden was the deep blue picaresque cover that is longed for. That was okay. Proceeding, we winded through the area looking at the shrubs and some mushroom growth. I wonder what it is like to see actual ‘old growth’ trees, - the real big ones. There is nothing like that in the forest that we visit. However, it has its own character and that is enough for now. I didn’t see the coyote, - he may be the carcass that is still spread out on the road side up the way, - or he may be hiding or busy or other. To go back, instead of the regular, a different way, - up the large hill. Some of it is ashen and some of it is verdant. All of it is quite soft. Wolfe and Tessa sniff around, look around. It’s actually not their favorite but it is not bad or disliked. A nice tree line. On both sides. Some tiny bits of blue showing through. A hawk comes and quickly sees we are far too big for him. Creating a small silhouette of what he really is, a flight away is taken and dispersion over the trees. Poof. Like magic. A hawk. A small intuition of such. A dot. Then nothing. Sitting around there for a bit, - looking at the rocks. One is split in a few directions. There are a series of wonderful small blue wildflowers hiding amongst the grasses. The old farmer said the groundhogs and rabbits are gone, eaten by the coyotes. It is only then I thought that he must be right, as I have never seen a rabbit or groundhog around there. Looking at some snake holes, I remember the snake that crossed my path last summer, and the one I saw curled up, blended in and sleeping or resting in the side of a tree. Some stones, but I don’t bother with stones like I used to. Once they interested me and I looked at the veins, felt the vibration, surveyed the texture and admired odd markings. Now I can’t remember the last time I picked one up. I shall have to reach down and touch one sometime. I touch the trees at moments. I look up, and it’s one of those afternoons where it looks like rain is coming but the rain takes a long time, - hours. It still has not announced itself. We head down the summit, on the opposite side, - and walk along an almost secreted way. It is unseen and not traversed for the most part anyhow.  Going back the makeshift lot is practically full. Thank goodness we managed to get lucky and avoid everyone. We hop in and pull out. As the tires rotate, some dust awakens from the road and makes an opaque story in the air.



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