The forest to my left looks like a winter landscape. No undergrowth, no foliage, the trees visible further through the forest than ever I can remember. The small pine needles are the sickening color of death as the heat left them brittle and dead. The ground beneath is bare, but for rocks. Fallen trees lay charred, warriors lost to battle with the quick moving flames. The rest are scared, but if you look to the canopy a sparse layer of green is reaching for the sun. Most of them will survive but will bear the scars of their battle for life. They stood tall, held what they could out of reach and did not give to the fire. Its short attention span carried it past them after a short mauling and they will live to see many more springs.
On the other side of the grey ribbon of hardtop the forest is lush and green, the undergrowth thick, small seedling pines visible springing from the ground in small clearings where there is enough light. This forest has a green florescence to it during the day, no matter the weather. Even sunny days can be dark in places. It is a forest that bears some age. One can’t help but feel the wisdom in the trees, in the rushing water of the creek I listen to as I write this. There are trees in this forest that can boast centuries of knowledge and history if you know where to find them. The younger trees almost seem to crowd around, keeping them hidden in the forest folds.
It is a place I am at home, a place where I find peace. I have considered more than once not leaving, just disappearing into those woods and never coming back. It is such an intense feeling that it has even spurred a novel about a gifted woman who does just that. Those are my desires laid on the page, she is doing what I only long to do, a fantasy by all measures, but if only it were possible. Here I would find peace like I can find nowhere else. The kind of peace that has eluded me for forty years.
On the other side of the grey ribbon of hardtop the forest is lush and green, the undergrowth thick, small seedling pines visible springing from the ground in small clearings where there is enough light. This forest has a green florescence to it during the day, no matter the weather. Even sunny days can be dark in places. It is a forest that bears some age. One can’t help but feel the wisdom in the trees, in the rushing water of the creek I listen to as I write this. There are trees in this forest that can boast centuries of knowledge and history if you know where to find them. The younger trees almost seem to crowd around, keeping them hidden in the forest folds.
It is a place I am at home, a place where I find peace. I have considered more than once not leaving, just disappearing into those woods and never coming back. It is such an intense feeling that it has even spurred a novel about a gifted woman who does just that. Those are my desires laid on the page, she is doing what I only long to do, a fantasy by all measures, but if only it were possible. Here I would find peace like I can find nowhere else. The kind of peace that has eluded me for forty years.
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