The Sound of Silence

Winter Camp.  Barren trees, whipping winds; a chill that blows through a jacket and rattles the bones.  All around me this November day are signs of hibernation.  The chitter of squirrels is missing.  Songbirds are gone.  Flowers have wilted and died.  Grass is every shade of brown.  Days are short.  Only the occasional caw-caw of the black crow breaks the sound of silence.   The crow is the only sign left of life.   Stillness and solitude in the campground.  Crackle of fire and hiss of hot dog  at the end of a whittled branch is the only warmth.  Feeling alone.  Feeling peaceful.  Able to feel.  Feels okay.   Another day.  November in the big woods is divine.  Time to think.  Time to be.  Me.  Alone with my thoughts and plans and hopes and dreams. 

Hocking Hills, OH where the Delaware Indians carved a long ago life.  On a trail I spooked a deer; a majestic eight point buck in his prime.  He blew at me and waved his flag.  A gift.

   At daybreak along a well worn trail, I happened upon a cave years ago carved by glaciers.  Colorful rock, sturdy, and home to early man.  Ancient.  Sitting on a stone perch, I can imagine life for its inhabitants.  Holed up against the elements.  Safe. A good life.  For sure.

November people are sung under the blankets in their soft beds.  Plastic blue tarps cover pontoons and RVs.  Children are finishing homework.  Bikes, bats and balls are put away.  Crock pots are out and soups are made.  Turkeys are being flash frozen by the millions.  Christmas trees are baled, stacked and ready to ship.    Me?  My nose is cold.  My campfire is hot.  Winter camp.  My favorite time of year.  Time to think.  Time to be.  Time to reflect.  A simple time.  Quiet before the storm.