Backroads of Morrow County Update:
I love to traverse the backroads in the winter. Okay, I love them all year round. But in the winter you can see:
The shapes of the limbs uncovered by their leaves, beginning with the twisted, gnarled corkscrew willow as I turn on Country Road 25 and leave The Acres for my excursion,
The contours of each field, the undulations of the small rises that once were hidden under rows of corn and soybeans,
The horizons that have magically reappeared,
The houses and barns not seen since summer,
The depths of the stands of woods now devoid of shrubs, no longer deep and mysterious but open and light.
So much to see--it was always there, but now I can sense the vastness, the secrets, feel the temptation to get out of The Last Ride and walk off into the sky.
I wonder if I'm recognized now that it is not the Little Red Wagon that creeps along the backroads?
And I love the variety of trees that catch my attention now in their starkness or their greenness--always there as well, but now I notice. Now I see. Perhaps the gray canvas of the sky with its small oceans of blue sky bring out their presence: a stand of paper birch by the old red, dilapidated barn, the windbreak of pines guarding the house, the white beauty of the sycamores standing--and leaning--by the streams they call home, even the oaks still clinging to their leaves as if afraid that they won't get new ones in the spring. And, today, with the cold wind, it was as if they nodded as I crawled by, crooning in the wind.
The cattle and sheep are out impervious to the cold wind, intent, heads down, dining out. Not much bird life--I think they are all at The Acres having a little dining out themselves. When I return from my wanderings and wonderings, they will flee for a second or two as I slide by the feeding stations--except for the chickadees and nuthatches who seem to fear nothing, let alone a chubby old bald guy in a car--or even walking about. Why fear an old earth-bound human when you have wings to fly?
So though winter has come with its canopy of white and dark, do not pity the old hermit, the beautiful remains. The Hand of the Artist, the Master Painter, always surrounds us--if we will see.
The shapes of the limbs uncovered by their leaves, beginning with the twisted, gnarled corkscrew willow as I turn on Country Road 25 and leave The Acres for my excursion,
The contours of each field, the undulations of the small rises that once were hidden under rows of corn and soybeans,
The horizons that have magically reappeared,
The houses and barns not seen since summer,
The depths of the stands of woods now devoid of shrubs, no longer deep and mysterious but open and light.
So much to see--it was always there, but now I can sense the vastness, the secrets, feel the temptation to get out of The Last Ride and walk off into the sky.
I wonder if I'm recognized now that it is not the Little Red Wagon that creeps along the backroads?
And I love the variety of trees that catch my attention now in their starkness or their greenness--always there as well, but now I notice. Now I see. Perhaps the gray canvas of the sky with its small oceans of blue sky bring out their presence: a stand of paper birch by the old red, dilapidated barn, the windbreak of pines guarding the house, the white beauty of the sycamores standing--and leaning--by the streams they call home, even the oaks still clinging to their leaves as if afraid that they won't get new ones in the spring. And, today, with the cold wind, it was as if they nodded as I crawled by, crooning in the wind.
The cattle and sheep are out impervious to the cold wind, intent, heads down, dining out. Not much bird life--I think they are all at The Acres having a little dining out themselves. When I return from my wanderings and wonderings, they will flee for a second or two as I slide by the feeding stations--except for the chickadees and nuthatches who seem to fear nothing, let alone a chubby old bald guy in a car--or even walking about. Why fear an old earth-bound human when you have wings to fly?
So though winter has come with its canopy of white and dark, do not pity the old hermit, the beautiful remains. The Hand of the Artist, the Master Painter, always surrounds us--if we will see.
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