The wind is racing waves toward me on the shore.
It is cold.
The wind, and water too, I imagine.
One thing I love is the way it tinkles the sand as if tiny fingers play piano keys.
I walk the high trail because I want to hear the birds.
But all I hear is streamers of cars traveling along the road and the beat of hammers on wood.
The Visitors Center one beat at a time.
It is colder than I thought, but as if a friend, the water belies that fate of nature.
The sun twinkles mischievously like tiny blinking eyes.
As I wander thicker into the woods I begin to hear birds and the stream of traffic fades.
Sometimes I forget how important birds are in my life…
I find wood
I find moss
I find dried leaves and rocks and stony ground wedged in soil
And I look at them all
As if I have never really experienced them before.
And the earth becomes quiet
Watching the natural rhythm of life with me.
I find the pond path
And the water is still and the air is still
And only my feet scuffing dried leaves make a mark on the world.