The Woodlands

I zip up my jacket, pulling my beanie cap over my ears. The brisk November morn greets me as I turn north, approaching the wooded area near my home. A wintry wind sweeps across the land with a bold honesty, a rawness that brought my soul into the gentle cloud-filtered rays. The woods crowned the land with protective grace, an ever-evolving map, its strong roots holding the earth firm in all kind of weather. In this nature’s hug of ever open arms of brown, cozy beneath the canopy of trees, there is a welcoming spirit that calls. It is as if there is something in me the trees can feel and they chatter to it, my intuition perhaps. There is a softness to the woodland floor, to the moss that supports and springs back. The woodland is the birdsong, it is the playful light and the serenity of time that flows without the clocks of man. woods may be silent but I sense the hidden stares telling me they’re there