I greet the trees

on my regular saunter around the Catwalk estate.

John Muir preferred the word saunter to hike.

Guess what? Have you ever had a wonderful dream, then woken up, then fallen back asleep and had the same wonderful dream continue?

That’s what I feel like. Catwalk called and said someone had canceled for the next session. Would I come back?

What do you think I said? I’m back in paradise for another two weeks.

I must have done something good at some point to deserve being in the presence of this fresh young white oak.

So I amble around, revisit my favorite sights.

The monster red oak poses for me.

The trees always look the same, I can rely upon them. Yet somehow different. Even the grass here pops, holding its cup of dew.

The beech’s silvery trunk more elegant each time.

Chipmunks scurry. Hummingbirds – too fast for a picture! The meadow. The air smells like cinnamon.

The meadow grasses.

Ever lush.

Each flower has a name.

Must I know them all?

I identify them.

Then forget the name.

Does it matter? Everyone knows a daisy, if they know anything at all.

Perfect wet rolls off the leaves. They don’t know how beautiful they are.

The ponds. First the catfish pond.

Then the frog pond.

A cattail, ready for her close-up.

A redwing blackbird calls. I meet up with a painted lady after she dug a hole for her eggs but before she laid them.

I tiptoe away so as not to disturb her further.

I see x’s and o’s. The x’s roots on the ground.

The o’s happy critter habitats all around.

Lichen on trunks.

Mossy, venerable stone walls, built at two hundred years ago to last.

More trees, characters like this leaning sweet birch, I have to stop for it each time I pass.

Mysterious sculpture made by someone I don’t know, sometime in the past.

Statuary. This strange creature.

Look a little closer.

Closer still.

Dogwood, its new bract spangles.

I wind up at my garden shed, my sanctuary. Filled with dusty, magical old objects, perfect light.

And the lawn outside with its gracious trees and a spooky circle of chairs.

The spider web, still here.

Recently I had some guests over for sugar cookies and oak leaf favors, good for book marks.

Introduced them around to some of the trees. Bur oak, I think? Or shagbark hickory? This is a good place because it reminds me I don’t know everything. I want to lose my arrogance.

The heavy hanging catkins of a black walnut. That I know.

Come back to my living quarters, stick some peonies in a glass. Glad to be back.

Time to write.