November Meadow
By John Helms
Morning creeps into
the frosty November meadow.
On the back of
starlight she slips over the distant trees and quietly enters the field.
The chirps of
morning birds, the chickadee, the wren and sparrows resonate on the meadow
floor,
In the tree tops
the jays and the cardinals all send up the alarm that she is coming.
As the first rays
of day are sprinkled around us,
The cold gray
darkness shifts slowly to blue and then to gold and yellow and white as she
approaches ever closer to the meadow.
Fingers of
daylight scatter a sprarkling frosting over everything in her reach,
Hanging crystalline ice from pine bough, limb tips, and the last burnt orange leaves of
the sturdy oaks.
As night turns
to day, the treetops explode with brilliance, showing off their branches, their
forks and hollows as well as the homes of creatures they hold in their arms.
The sun begins to
warm the ground and life returns.
A fox finishes its rounds and steals back to its hiding
place deep in the wood.
Two squirrels,
then three, then four chase about from limb to limb on a distant tree, dashing
to earth to gather acorns, pecans and hickory nuts for their winter cache’.
As the birds silence
their morning melodies, there is a movement at the meadow’s edge.
With the secrecy of
a master spy, the figure tip toes into the fresh tender shoots exposed by the
early frost.
Left and right
she looks with each step further into the field she takes.
And when she is
fully out of the woods and in the waiting meadow, they follow.
Two of her in
miniature, barely six months old, they too are cautious, having learned the art
of hidden movement and survival in the wood and glen from her.
Their heads low,
they begin to feed, silently, almost motionlessly, content on this tiny patch
of earth.
Forty paces from
the family, in the shadows of a giant pine he enters, slowly cautiously,
proudly, head held high, eyes darting left and right, his caution hidden by his
grandeur and brash boldness.
On his antlers
the flash of sunlight from morning’s intervention exposes his position and he
freezes as if he knows the light has captured him and betrayed him.
Soon all blend
into the scene at the wood’s edge as the stillness of the field is restored.
The sun itself has
climbed above the trees where is fingers touch the ground and then the frosty ground below.
Within minutes
the crystal clear morning field is veiled by a low lying mist hovering only
a foot or two above the ground. n
The sun continues
his slow relentless rise and the last remnant of night gives way to the deep fading
blue in the western sky.
As the frost
disappears and the strong light of day returns to the field, the birds take
wing, first the blackbirds, then the sparrows and later the kestrel hunts from
his perch on a lone limb from a dying pine.
The field is
alive, though only the perceptive eye sees the intricate movement of the light
and dark shadows that are out of place as they move about their day.
The crow overhead
calls out my position and is joined by a choir of others calling their counsel to
all who will listen.
I glance up only
for a moment and when my eyes return to meadow's edge and the field where I sit,
all is quiet and I am alone.
John Helms –November 6, 2010 sitting at the base of a
huge pine tree while Logan hunted from above in a stand.
Copyright John Helms , November 2011
I wrote this while spending time in the woods with Logan in 2011. He was hunting and I was observing. The woods are full of life for those willing to take the time to see all that is there. I have learned that not all hunting is for game. Sometimes hunters are just looking for the things they know...their heart, spirituality, peace and themselves.
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
