The shadows out my window fill the woods with only patches of light. It's a bright day, almost no clouds, yet the shade is deep, the leaves a darker green than ever yet this year. Far off but still visible a gravel drive, a neighbor's pond and gazebo, fancier than the tall weeds and foxtail that grow in sunlit patches of mine. Just beneath my windows ferns and mosses spread on the damp side of the house. Our land rolls to the creek, a ravine of old leaves wedged between roots and rocks, rerouting the water with each hard rain.
One larger patch of sunlight catches my eye. Shade grass squeezes between the granite, quartz and sandstone, trunks pushed to left and right leaning on eachother where their tops collide. Fungi nestle in the composting leaves, some a surprise with their thumb-sized red hats. Always I am happy to spot them.
Always I wanted to live like this in a house in a woods, in a woods behind a meadow; a meadow with cedar trees three stories high and deer beneath the branches spreading low to the ground making a dome fragrant and fresh. Then along the wood's edge loblolly pines shedding onto their golden carpet. Cedar leaves small and itchy, loblolly needles soft and long. Pinecones spread wide. Hawks and ravens and turkey vultures in the meadow and under the dogwood squirrels and chipmunks sharing bounty with the birds. Wild spiny mahonia, barberry, holly and nandina, all with berries blue or red. Lenten roses reseeded across the boundary from a neighbor's garden.
Nothing showcase here, all is old: the land, the trees, the house and some days me. Even the dog. Nothing quite kept up to snuff. But what a place of calm and equilibrium, where life can stretch long like a shadow, like the shadows out the window that fill the woods.
Nina Naomi
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