Summer clouds through the pine trees.
I woke in the fields.
The fields I have never seen.
The fields black beneath the white sun.
Limbs emerge from snow.
Snow scatters into the wind.
Wind twists the clouds around me.
From the horizon a train nears.
The horizon shakes and fractures.
The fractured fragments cover my mind.
I was not yet ready to awaken.
I pass trees on either side, deeper into the forest and further form the fields, leaving one realm for another. I feel no fear of the unknown land I am nearing, and at this point there are no active thoughts of what I am leaving. I carry only the moment I am living and move with no effort.
Far from the fields I sing wordless songs. I sing to exposed tree roots, moss covered path, squirrels and birds. I sing to the sky free of clouds, and to the circling ravens. I sing to myself as the forest closes around me until my voice is completely silent.
Removed from the city
even for an afternoon
layers of stress and blocks
fall away, replaced by what
the wind brings, what the
trees take, and what the animals
are willing to share.
How else to rebuild the soul
than to witness firsthand
the infinite cycle of nature,
of earth, of home?
Scattered dreams forgotten at first light.
A vague cloud follows.
Trees bend at impossible angles
the air wavers and shimmers.
I walk the dirt path worn
from ancestors and ancient methods.
Morning light through the tree canopy
casts fragments across my face.
I cannot help but feel I am being
followed by a shadow of my former self.
Storms rolled through last week.
Weak and old trees toppled to the ground or fell into a neighbor or
landed on the wire fencing with the orange flags.
Near the pole barn smaller trees were uprooted but the metal roof
still looks new, the green roof glistening when wet.
What little birch are mixed with the pine
still stand, their white and grey skin
Sliver of gradient orange into purple.
The forest stands tall merging with the sky.
We listen to distant owls, we watch for the coyotes.