The sun never rose this morning, at least not in our woods, at least not that I could tell. The day was textbook dreary. One shade of gray. When the dog and I headed out for our morning walk to the gate, I thought about books I read as a child that described a woman and her hound walking the moors. As we left the clearing and entered the canopied woods, I wondered whether the coyotes were back in their dens, whether Lou and I might look like a tasty breakfast.
I’ve walked this path almost daily for close to twenty years. There is a surprise, a treasure, a scare, or an epiphany nearly every time. Today, the shapes and colors of the leaves underfoot drew my eye. The tip-end of the Florida panhandle has identifiable seasons. Garnet, sienna, and ochre leaf colors penetrated the bleak landscape.
Later this afternoon, sitting in a circle of light at my desk, the call of barred owls was loud enough to hear through insulated house walls. They must have been close. It’s a riveting sound, terrifying and magnicent. Symphonic.