The Watch In The Wild Wood
Some thoughts of spending fall in a Washington State cabin
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Live deliberately
I moved to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.
Then, some douche tore down, stripped, and burned the woods. I was, like, WTF? (Where’s the forest!?!)
I went to out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head. And, cut and peeled a hazel wand, and hooked a berry to a thread. But most of the hazel trees were diminished by alder and cottonwood invasives species. My hazel wand’s magic had fizzled out like tears from a baby hushed to sleep by lulling sobs.
Nevertheless, I was in the woods. In this little cabin. There to watch. To be the watch, to be both the seer, and keeper, of time in the little woodland. Not so wild anymore. But still madly clinging to muddy soil at the roots, while groping skyward with bare, knobby fingers to claw the sky.
Hold on
The sky, its overly shiny sun beaming down, was dotted by occasional clouds.
Trees and I mindlessly grasp, I suppose, in hopes of catching and holding the slight shade of those misty beings of cumulus that grace us with every refreshing pass.
Where did the woods go? I pause and stare down at some Dehydrated grass. It tells me.
When it was cooler and wetter, woods thrived. In thriving, it attracted developers, chain saws, lumberjacks, hunters, road carvers. Then reveling teens, and even tree huggers — like myself. (And, you too, I hope).
The wind gusts the grass and sighs, decides to add her bit: “They built those nine new houses, right along the smooth, new roads. Then families moved in and brought their dogs. Goodbye birds, squirrels, possums, skunks, racoons, and, all-all-all of fox and friends…”
Wind trails off and then wisps away, ruffling the black berries that nod on the late summer bramble branch.
“She will be back” grass gossips about the wind. “She’s saving up for a big blow tonight. A storm.”
I say nothing.
Your stupid minds!
I watch a wooly bear caterpillar snug into a little ball, and seek a crevice in a ragged log. Here is the proof, the brain smaller than a grape seed somehow confirms the weather is coming. She/he knows better than we do.
I prepare the cabin. Layer blankets on blankets. Collect candles. I like a good storm. A good storm will wake people up. And, they are beautiful, streaking the sky with God’s etchings in light, and thundering proclamations and warnings.
“You’re a fool,” says the stare of a scrambling chipmunk with an actual plan.
Not some stupid plan nine from outer space.
I pause.
He is right, I think.
He and his wife have been collecting sunflower seeds, bits of corn, an occasional wheat flake, and as many fir cones as they can haul.
“You need so much food?” I ask.
His glance catches mine and his glossy eyes speak:
“Home owners will remove all these trees after this storm. They came for the woods, but now the sky comes for them. They’ll refuse to let the trees fall on their new homes. We lose.”
“A tree can fall in any direction, though,” I protest. “And I have seen all these same trucks parked at the Red Wind Casino. The homeowners have good odds of being missed by tree tops.
I pause again. They ignore me.
“Besides, the owls come at dusk, and people LOVE owls! Perched and singing ‘Hootie who who!’”
“You are a fool” chitters the chipmunk wife, and they skitter out of sight.
I sigh. Of course they are right. Human beings are foolish gamblers, all the other organisms of Earth are not.
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Part II: The late summer becomes fall at the cabin and woods still to come…