She always has her eye on me, little does she know that I see her when no one else can. High atop the branches of the oldest Walnuts, or laying low in the ditches of the valleys. I’d like to think I’d make a successful predator out here. The way I have a sense of the land. The way I move as it moves. But I am hardly a predator. My heart is too full for the damp earth, trees jutting this way and that, for these creatures, my kin. The things that I hunt after cannot be contained: The pungent air from a misty swell off the rivers froth, the call of the Kingfisher as it winds between the banks, the way a spider weaves her weapon each morn’ for breakfast. There is this much and more that I look to daily for replenishment. My heart thunders in these woods and not far in the distance I hear it’s echoing beat.. The sound reverberates through the trees as the Pileated woodpeckers make quick work of a hollow tree. Silence, success. Their belly’s full, my heart sings. -JL
Comments are closed