Friday, March 21, 2008

man in the forest



A hard rain last night left branches scattered over the grass and the water as deep as dark. A few days ago I discovered a map that showed how to reach the trail on the other side of the river. I went down to the road and crossed under the concrete dam, and up onto the grassy bank. Brick steps led up and over the top of the waterworks and into the forest. The trees where I usually walk are birch and ash and beech. I can see across from here the trails that I know so much more. The earth is full of slate and rises up to block out the afternoon sun, leaving the earth in shadow.



On this side of the river there is mountain laurel and the remnants of dead oak groves falling into the water. Running juniper covered one rise on the bank like a shawl. Hidden in one corner of the shore is a small sandy shoal, which is a place where running water deposits sediments because a shift in the current forces the water to slow to the point where it can carry the sand no further. The old ashes of a fire and burnt Corona bottles were there. More of those strange flowers. And above the banks and dead oaks themselves rose the high ridge, the hard granite boulders, and gorgeous black tulepos.



Two centuries or three centuries old. Protected no doubt because to fell them would be to shatter and destroy them on the granite forest floor. And they were in bloom with pink flowers the size of your hand, that washed out entire against the light in the sky. Blush on an empty tree.



The open expanse of the river allows the sun to fall on the shore here, where there is a riot of moss, and clusters of deep-rooted and velvet-leafed plantains. A thin grass with a pale pink flower that held it's petals closed against themselves like a mitten holding yellow corn. And clusters of a dark green rounded leaf plant with butter yellow flowers, eager and large as a kiss.



I do not know their names. The prints of dogs I did recognize, from the many sizes of them that passed through. And where the moss or the leaves did not cover the soft earth, the sharp imprints of last night's deer. Fearless, up and down the winding paths, they could be followed through the park, up along the sparking mica trails and then plunging down to the river and out onto the silt to reach the edge of water. Hoof prints you could lay your fingers whole inside.



Small deer so close to the city. Not too small for antlers. And not too small for poachers either. One must have laid in wait, hidden in the fallen dead oak and rustling thorns. Trekked in from the public parking lot. Listened to the clatter of deer hooves coming down the stony ridge. Noble hunter.



He must have stood no taller than I just a week ago. Now his eyes are gone and his open mouth is empty. His hooves remain and are smaller than my hands. His bones also, and even where they are twisted from his carcass, none are broken. No wounded deer who crawled down to the water so far from the road to die. The antlers are all that man took away.

4 comments:

John Larocque said...

Well, since you asked for comments. Loved the fotos, even the dead things... The flowers were the nicest though.

redtree2 and treewater2 were standouts.

I also liked tulepoflowers (the trees against the sky). Interesting perspective from below.

Anonymous said...

So fitting that this page started with an expression of appreciation for No Country For Old Men and ended with your own Crossing...mere steps and the sky is blocked not by concrete and not by mortar and not by the minds of men but by edifices centuries old and fragile as the edge of a blade, placed by God and perpetual by whim of man for shattering them on that unforgiving floor would lessen their utility and death is acceptable in utility and convenience.

Or in caprice, for a dark ornament snatched in one quick moment of brutality from a dark towering cathedral amidst man's lights. A totem. A sigil. An icon. A representation to hang on his wall for the purpose of quickening his heart and making him feel connected with eternal truth and finality in a way no cross and savior ever did. A worthless memory of a death that served no utility.

(I hope you read No Country For Old Men, and perhaps some of the other McCarthy books I recommended on the board. I thought this blog entry was so lovely and McCarthy-esque that I would do my best to comment in kind.)

-Banzai

John Larocque said...

And then there's Blood Meridian... Good lord, Ridley Scott is doing a film version? Sadly, No Country is one of the very few of his books that I haven't read. Maybe when I buy my copy of the film, I'll do a double bill.

Anonymous said...

beautiful blog, beautiful place, beautiful photos.
death is a constant in nature, it's not tidy, whether inflicted by man or not. some other creatures feasted on the deer, even though it might seem a waste, and were given a chance to survive the winter.

Jane