The
wind came down to the valley. It touched the top first. Well, it was not a
touch, but a resounding sound and visit. Akin to the way the ocean can crash on
the shore. I saw that the trees began to shake and the snow laden branches shed
the white, let it to go into the wind. I half-expected the earth to tremble,
but it didn’t and wouldn’t. The things I remember whist standing there the most
were the blue sky mixed with white clouds, plus the green of the tall
evergreens mixed in with that blue, or I suppose in front of it. White and
green and blue. There were other parts of nature besides, such as the little
thorns that lived on the branches if they be called that, and just waited atop
a bit of snow, as if to say that they had been frozen in time, which in a way
they had. Also the old tree trunks that were covered in winter’s charms, -
white, wind, some invisible but felt coldness.
The
summit of the valley held a path and nearabouts the end of it was where I once
saw a deer race past. In fact, if the truth be told, it wasn’t that it raced
past, but that it was there, waiting, watching, and then raced away, - to my
left, to its right. Once it was going through the brush it was like paint being
thrown through the air, or a dream, a vision, and as quick as a thought. A deer
can be as quick as a thought I would swear. Well, we circle around a bit
eventually and come to a path, once again there is a path, - but this one has
deeper snow because less souls have tread upon it. Nearabouts the end of that
particular way, there is an opening, and once you go right, further away from
the forest, the tracks usually stop and you have to make your own way. That is
where we went and we did fine by taking our time, and also through enjoying the
sun that shone down fairly, openly, honestly, and with its prowess, upon all
and everything there.
After
a while some inner clock said it was time to go. The wind, having picked up a
bit here and there, had left again. I thought back to some time before when it
was strong atop the valley wall. I had not seen the farmer in a long while, or
the corn stalks that wait silently in the winter air, their aura something I
had never experienced, their energy something I felt definitively, but could
still not really place. The aura of corn stalks, of feed corn, is a peculiar
one,- but it is handsome somehow, if an aura could be handsome, and seems like
a smart wooden pier just newly built on a clam lake or quite a quiet part of an
ocean inlet. I shall have to think more on that one, and re-visit those stalks
that stand like that, hiding some mystery within such as spirits, stones,
vortexes, such like that.
In
the meantime we begin the walk out, part and parcel of a larger, of an
infinite, of a sometimes difficult but always overall wonderful story.
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