WHERE THE ROAD ENDS AND THE RED WILDBERRIES BEGIN

Where the road ends is where we begin. A storm has passed through and another one is coming. But, in the meantime, it is a liminal time, and there is pause for walking, reflection, meandering. The smells and sights are normal enough- the fallen pine needles, some washed round droplets upon leaves. No snakes or frogs are seen this time, which is odd because sometimes the water seems to wash them out, to send a disruption their way so that they scurry a bit, slither some, a and even go right across the paths. There are a few black flies it would seem, and other things like mosquitoes that can annoy. But the National holiday along with the weather has kept the place mostly vacant. Even the old farmer can`t be seen and not one person is bumped into. I noticed the bees in the feral shrubs with flowers, usually busily working in the open fields, are simply not there. How different was the sunny afternoon when they were in their multitudes. We go along; - it’s for the dogs to get exercise, fresh air, playtime, and smells, so on. 

 

There are some wild red berries that glisten in the light along the path. One reaches over to

say hello, to be seen, but remains orderly enough. Beyond that the path is long, clear, still interesting if empty. The wind is coming. It even gets a bit cold, if it could be called cold. Clouds are slowly moving overhead, but they have skill, an agility that is confident and takes its time. Soon we will go back- and they will come in. Thunder will sound and seem to shake. Lightning, way in the distant county`s sides- will be known along loams we might imagine but never actually see. It’s not a day for the sun, for the bee, for the merry-maker, for the walker or really for anyone. It’s a day for the dark wind and the storms. But, - we need the rain as they say. It will bring life back to the ground- a ground in many places too flaxen, parched, and numbed by thirst and the bleaching light of weeks and weeks it would seem, without proper rain.

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