by LadyWhiz
I feel the need for clouds, and breezes, and begin my customary walk to the
forest, only to be stopped by the overwhelming maturity of summer. I pause,
and see the babies, and toddlers of spring moving into adulthood, and watch
the rites of their brief lives. The doe moves slower now, leaving her scent
behind, for the magnificent buck to follow, driven by the urge to leave themselves
behind. The tiny dragonflies have grown, and now ride piggy back, searching
for the right place to leave their eggs, and the ladybugs have whispered their
secrets to me, as the dots grow on their candy shells.
I search for the fawn, and see in the traces of the earth that they have abandoned the river for the more secluded creek in the forest. I miss them, these innocents of spring, and feel a sadness to see their youth slip away, as the fox pushes her kits out into the world, and the owl has only himself to feed now. Even the fat bumblebee moves on, his offspring having safely taken the buzzing advice offered. There is no joy here, now, only the driving urge to move on, move forward, leave some amount of themselves for eternity in reproduction. Everything is busy, storing for the cruel winter, searching for a soul mate, stealth and cunning of adult instinct taking over. My unicorns have flown, their fantasy stolen away, and I am left to ponder the turning of the seasons, and I move to the path in the forest, surprised at the quiet in the clearing before the opening.
My course changes, and I drift to the creek, making my way past the busy, bustling city of grass and flowers. I long for the babies of spring, and the wide eyed wonder of the new world, and my heart is heavy with the threat of winter, and the death and destruction it brings. I go to my rock, grateful to sink to the warm earth, and rest my bones, and look at the changes in the creek since my last visit. I can see where it has thrown it's edges carelessly over the bank with the summer storms, and I see the broken limbs lying about like skeletons from the anger of the storms. From under the biggest log, tossed on it's side, peeks a raccoon, not quite grown, but no longer needing the protection of it's mother, and it's bandit eyes look over me, searching for the perfect tidbit to sustain it through the afternoon. It is cute, this masked maurader, and the salt and pepper gray of it's fur blends in perfectly with the grays of the log. This brings out a curiousity in me that has long since lain dormant, that of camaflouge, and colors. I begin to look closer, my worries forgotten for a time, and see the perfection of my creek world. The grasses, thought of as being only green, throw out their true colors for the first time to me, and I see the spots of yellow between them, and the brown tips of the wild wheat, and the blue reflections of the summer sky in the dew drops, carefully held for the tiny ones to drink from.
A movement through the grasses causes me to peer closer and a teenage rabbit nibbles on the tender shoots. The brown of his coat blends perfect with the brown of the grasses close to the ground, had he not moved, I would not have seen him. I notice the insides of his long ears, and the color there is of wheat, golden, blended, for the tops of the grasses. How ingenious! To make the coat darker, to blend with the darker roots of the grasses, but the insides of his ears much lighter, to blend with the tops of the wheat. I marvel on this, and spy a ladybug, her shell bright red, and spotted with yellow. She moves to the wild flowers, tiny tentacles holding on to the fragile petals, and I am in awe of her once bright and shiny coat, so obvious on the rocks, now a part of the flower she rests on. I begin to search for others, hidden in this secret, painted world.
A racket above my head turns my eyes upward into the trees, and I can see nothing at first, then, again, a movement brings the puzzle pieces together. A fat, red squirrel chatters at me, cursing me in unknown tongue, and his creamy belly blends in with the branch he owns. The shadows through the leaves make a color not named, and his coat, with it's copper highlights, blends with the shadows. I see his tail now, bushy, and flip, moving like the leaves in the wind, and it leaves me to wonder what else I have missed, now that the baby colorings have left my creatures of nature. Another movement, this time on the ground, amid the rocks, and it is a toad, covered in a tasteless, nameless color. I look closer, and see the spots on this gentle creature, too, and the blend of nothing makes for a perfect part of the mud and rocks.
I sigh, and rise, the unshed tears far away now, and move through the creek bed, along the banks, listening to it's velvet songs, the cool dark waters offering peace, and refuge to the hunted. It has again served it's purpose for me, and I make my way back, at peace with myself, and in awe of a Creator so perfect, that everything is as it should be.
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Won't you sign Sorcie's
GUEST
BOOK?
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