Nighttime
The moon is up, not quite full, but enough to illuminate the woods through the trees that have begun their fall ritual of dropping leaves.
The leaves coat the forest floor. They are still fresh, not dried or crunchy, and as I walk, my boots grind them and they add to the forest perfume. Soils, mosses, grasses and ferns, the decay of wood and vegetation, the cycle of growth, life, death, decay and rebirth surrounds and envelopes me, it feels comfortable, it feels known.
The walk is easy, it is relatively flat terrain, few rocks, not at all what I’m used to. The cool night air whispers of the departure of the summer, and like a held breath, the silence waits for the coming winter. I walk easily, not sweating beneath my woven poncho.
I cannot see a trail. There are no traditional trail markings, there is no worn path, but I feel sure in my direction, as if I have been here before. I walk between the tall trees, as if they part to guide me further on, deeper into the silent woods.
My steps fall almost silently, there are some katydids and crickets, the frogs and peepers are silent as the season has moved decidedly toward cooler weather. In the distance, in front of me and toward the right, I can occasionally hear a great horned owl calling. Though my trek is relatively silent, quiet breathing, the occasional twig snap, branches brushing my clothing, the sounds of my padded footsteps…. and those of my companion…?
After walking for what seems quite some time, I realize that there is an animal walking at my pace beside me on the right. A large grey wolf. I feel like I know him, and he seems to feel the same. He walks where I walk, at my pace, taking in our surroundings and with little care or curiosity of the two-legged interloper walking next to him.
I am not panicked, worried or scared. It is as if he is supposed to be there, his presence feels comfortable, it feels known.
As we walk, the owl sounds closer. In the distance there seems to be less trees. There is a clearing of sorts, where more of the moon’s soft light reaches the ground. The temperature has dropped just a bit more, and moisture hovers in the air just above the ground. Not quite fog, but it might lead to that, but we are not worried.
We continue onward, not pressing, there is no urgency, we are drawn. Is it curiosity, or something else? One step at a time, with no thought to a destination, almost like a river flowing, moving in the direction of least resistance, not a care or worry about what lays ahead.
As we walk into the area of less trees, I see a pond or small lake ahead, the moonbeams dancing on the water. It lays ahead and our way widens as we approach. We walk on grasses now, fewer branches try to reach out and touch us. There is almost an anticipation, but for what? I’m not anxious, it’s as if the destination is at hand.
We walk out of the woods, the moonlight falls upon us softly, my friend’s coat sparkles with drops of dew, our breaths are showing signs of condensation as we both breath in and out in a relaxed, easy pace.
I stand, gazing at the pond, trying to notice details in the soft light. I then, for the first time, catch the scent of wood smoke. I turn to try to pinpoint where it is coming from and to the right, at the far end of the pond, is a small log cabin, somewhat squat in stature, with a chimney that I can see, with wisps of smoke rising and intertwining with the increasing layer of moisture.
The lights from the windows are inviting, my friend and I turn toward the end of the pond that holds the cabin and take a step.
