Yesterday Bella and I decided to leave life behind for a bit and ramble. We headed off down the hill to the creek bottoms to see what we could see.
As we walked along the tree line the sporadic crash of bounding white tails startled us. But we were both too wise to give chase; those waving white tails let us know we'd be out-bounded in no time.
In winter it seems eerie down in the pastures, abandoned. The wind sighs across the field, and Bella chases field mice through their grassy tunnels, her butt up in the air, tail wagging. Her joy in the simple pleasures of life always make me smile. For all that I did not want a dog, I have learned through her to enjoy the tranquility of the moment.
The bone-white upper limbs of the sycamore ghost over the meadow; seeming to float through the leafless wood. Winter is their time to glow, to outshine their companions. And I think that no matter how stark and haunted life should become, perhaps there will always be a gleam of hope if I search for it.
Bella and I kept an eye out for coyote, turkeys...or perhaps the neighbor's Great White Pyrenees....but all was still, silent...
Except for the crows. They shatter the silence with their banter and fuss. But we pay them no mind; they are the background noise that complements the silence.
Bella and I amble down the dry Four Mile Creek bed; awash with fallen leaves. Along the bank the waters have washed out fascinating root formations. Tree toes writhing as they vainly clutch eroding terra firma.
On some tree trunks, 10-12 feet above the creek bottom, there are slowly healing scars from past flooding.
Bella does not understand why I stop and mess with that little black box so often. She comes over and asks what's going on and urges a change of scenery.
So we walk on down to visit Fluffy. She is still hanging out, but keeps turning darker as time goes along. The fresh white outlining her right eye socket and nose speak of forest denizens seeking calcium. I cannot resist giving her speckled cranium a pat as we pass by. Fluffy was the only cow who'd let me scratch her behind her ears. I still miss her.
There is a nest inside her skull, it's hard to see and harder to photograph, but it calls to mind the cycle of life; life so often comes from death. And even as we live from day to day, I think that sometimes to be satisfied tomorrow we must let something from yesterday die off to allow before a new thing can take up residence in our life.
After ambling around a bit more we head back up the hill to confront real life again, refreshed and ready to face the holiday craziness.
(My thanks: a dog to watch having a good time, woods to walk in, a good life to go back to.)