Dreaming the World

Earlier this week I was reminded yet again that very often seemingly far away events impact our local community profoundly. Acts of terror, as it turns out, are seldom abstract and removed, nor do they lose their power to induce wide-spread grief, fear, and sorrow.

This afternoon I put the news away and went for a walk as the clouds thickened, promising an early night and a soaking rain. I had planned to make a loop through the forest and over the hill but as I walked the day rapidly darkened and I thought better of my plan, not wishing to navigate, on crutches, a rain slickened, leaf covered trail in twilight.

We are at the time of year when vivid color has largely given way from vibrant reds to muted oranges and yellows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yet, at the forest’s edge the occasional oak sapling still showed rich red.

 

 

 

 

 

On the hillside a few late season berries held fiercely to the vine.

 

 

 

 

 

At the edge of the field a young red fox stood in the tall grass, then bolted before I could gather an image in the diminishing light.

 

 

 

 

 

In the deep forest the light changed from orange to blue, reflecting the gathering late afternoon darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I turned towards home, heading back through the milkweed field where our hill rose darkly from the wood, reminding me of Thomas Hardy’s autumnal writings and the deeply human tragedies his characters faced, sometimes alone and sometimes as communities.

 

 

 

 

 

I managed to arrive home before the rain, although given the rapidly falling temperatures I guessed the rain could not be far behind. As I entered the house I was greeted by a welcome wave of light and warmth, and was reminded that for the moment, in this place, all was well.