(Becoming a Naturalist, Part 38.)
By Jack Phillips
How odd to be strange to these homewoods our frequent haunt and saunter. Chitters and gabs make us alien beings in the womb of our being with each step more strangely made here. Not so the birds and those who make rustles with each sound they are further made music, foxes the footprints of spirits.
Halo days ring the solstice lay bare the woods and our transgressions, cold mercies and clearly human wounds. Still or walking the winter woods might be entered silent step and breath. Sun on our shoulders lays lumens before us and shadow-black bones of daylight. Least weasel little ghost ellipsis written in snow.
Oaks black and red, chinkapin, bur. Oyster fungus and some jellies, fairy-dust lichens, crusty sunburst. Hazelnut, wahoo bent-over boughs. Frozen pond eyeball, dead-stare widened sky. Blue-bead as raccoon-grape sometimes known (the biggest we have seen) a corky python loops and climbs “present but rare” as indicated here.
Beep-beep-beep a nuthatch. The path dissolves to deer tracks and consciousness to creatureliness, ego to impulse: give us ferity and animal hungers, eyes for the unseen, feet for keeping secrets. Earthlings in love with earth and now our softened presence, these woods await our rare devotion.