I heard the young hawk as we walked on the dirt road. The one who circles the farm, with a piercing screech that never seems to stop.
Once we get to the woods, we take the turn off the path that will tie the ends of our circle.
Rusty orange salamanders drape themselves over fallen branches, and curl up in the damp leaves making little orange squiggles.
I walk the path of least resistance over years of leaf cover to a patch of low grass then through the ferns. Up the hill, stepping over trees that all seemed to fall at the same time. Coming out in the place where among the the maples, oaks, beech and black birch, the pines are the tallest.
What were once branches protrude from the inside of a tree that fell a long time ago and is now making its way back to the earth. The nubby branches grow moss, like the antlers of a young buck.
Sun like a spotlight moves though the woods falling on decaying leaves, lighting up a seedling, never staying too long. Still, I wonder if it’s enough to make a difference, to be touched by the sun, even if just for a moment.
I pick a blackberry in the clearing, the thorny bushes grabbing at my leggings. The bushes are ubiquitous but the berries are rare. They are tiny compared to the plump ones I got at the farmers market last week.
I mash the blackberry between the roof of my mouth and tongue. A burst of flavor and texture of tiny seeds. I hold the berry in my mouth, taking my time, unwilling to let the dark sweetness go.
Fate take the lead, past the mound of rocks left over from a farmer, now covered in moss and ivy. Past the marsh where only one kind of grass grows, a green sea and rolling hills at the same time.
I pick my way across the rocks in the little brook, once again gushing with water. I circle the fallen Hickory, then slowly walk the log arched over the same brook only further down stream.
At the little waterfall, I marvel, playing with the scale in my mind, pretending its hundreds of feet high like the pictures I’ve seen of waterfalls in South America.
Now the deer path is thick with tall plants and low bushes, it’s muddy from days of rain. Tiny Velco-like seeds lean into me hitching a ride on my clothes.
At the Gulley Bridge I can’t resist taking off my shoes, tugging up my leggings and putting my feet in the cold, flowing water.
Over head the the piercing screech of the young hawk, welcomes us home.
