Bleach limbs stick out stark and naked like bones against the thriving summer green foliage of trees beside the desiccated birch. A gaunt and ugly eyesore - the noble sentinel refuses to give up his guard and place among the forest; drying moans of slick bark, stretching sunward and challenging the wind’s torment. Is the lone birch’s bravery lost among the mass of fawning perfection?
A rivulet of perspiration rolls down my neck, pausing in place until the oscillating warm air from the fan sweeps by, before gliding down a tendril of loose hair, and rolling toward t-shirt absorption. Eyes blink with salt tethers of heat haze and drone lazily across the floor to settle on fur puddles lazing traverse floor boards. A breathe escapes with a heavy pull and tug of lungs, as I grasp to breathe slow and steady against the weight of condensation. Summer’s tyranny is heat induced.
Hair windblown from the open window, the cool current carries the scent of deep woods; the kind of deep wood where the sun barely slants between leaden limbs of towering pine and oak. Moist, dark, soil deep scents, shades of sun blockers in a lost sea of branches and ferns. Ominous patches of dark back roads winding ever deeper into the depths of the mountain’s basement. Before falling into shadows gloam the road begins to spiral heavenward, desperate to catch the height of a crow’s flight.
Plowed fields span the girth of heaven, doused in a fermenting storm front. The breathless vista of far mountains bathed in mist hurts the heart. Nature calls with the spirit of earthen drums and the ground thrums beneath my feet. I ache to plant myself between the rows, forever lost in the visage before me. Pockets of splendor touched and untouched by civilization, lost in the knowing.
Life is found in the depths of the details. Whenever we gleam over the details in books, we miss the skin and bones which bring characters and words alive. We miss a chance to step into the author’s mind. Worlds and dreams become reality one small detail at a time through intricate descriptions and places we’ve never been.
More and more I’m left hungry for the details - the visual plethora of imaginations. If it’s not the destination but the journey – what are you looking for in your story or life?
Picture From Here