Fire-breathing trees

Posted on October 21, 2010


Yesterday evening light poured over the bright trees.  Branches swirled as the west wind wheeled around to come from the north.   The sky kept changing.  All of this drama, going on right above my head—I stood out on the deck and gave myself a crick in the neck just looking at it, like a country mouse seeing skyscrapers for the first time. 

Today the dogs and I made our way along the lane through the woods, the wind in our faces. We rounded a curve and a doe stepped onto the path right in front of us. We stopped. She stood still, her back to us. Then she turned, as if, well, something seemed to be not quite right. She looked right at us but didn’t seem to register “dogs” or “human.” She looked off the way she’d come, as if trying to make a decision. She looked back at us. Looked away. Then her white flag went up and she was off, leaping up the deer trail over the drumlins as the dogs, their trance broken, pulled and whined to be unleashed. It’s exhilarating to realize how much is going on in the world that I cannot possibly understand.

All this and I am making progress on my to-do list. Or at least I’m striking as many things off the top as I’m adding to the bottom, which is a kind of progress, isn’t it?