To The Woods

The rain begins to pelt down.  I want to walk and my husband wants to wait it out in the confines of the car.  We have been looking forward to this opportunity to let Rex our dog run safely in the expansive rolling hills.  The dog becomes almost a blur as he runs in haphazard patterns first towards us and then away from us and toward us again.  His soft fur brushes against me as he bolts past me full tilt.  It makes me freeze in place. This frenzied pace lasts only a few minutes and he slows by accepting a treat. 

A little breathless on the uphill, we amble into the woods.  The snow has receded on the paths and at first it takes a concentrated effort to stay on course without white footprints leading the way.

The ground is soft.  Each step gives way just a bit. Familiarity punctuates the path once we adjust to the spring thaw. Boulders remain in place, as do long-ago fallen logs tossed about like pick up sticks.  No matter what direction we begin our walk we always make our way to the highest elevation to take in the view.  During fall when the deciduous leaves are thinning , the bare of winter or early spring, it affords a view of the windy canals of the brackish cranberry bogs. During the summer, we look in the direction of the bogs and imagine.

 There is a degree of constancy in walking these paths even with the changing of the seasons. It is the routine and communing with nature that seems to fill us with peace.  And this is a good thing.