Nothing happened on my portage to the big lake Nothing happened when I walked through the greenest of grass and tucked under the cypress tree
Nothing happened as I passed the western red cedar where the ground is bare earth except for iridescent moss
Nothing happened on the paved switchbacks where the sun filters through summer leaves that are staring at the coming fall
Nothing happened on the shore of the big lake where the smallest of waves slap the sand under the warmth of the sun
Nothing happened as I paddled north one thousand, two thousand strokes on the bluest of water, my right side in the glow of the sun and my left in the long cool shadow of fall
Nothing happened when I saw the first tiny long necked grebe of this fall
Nothing happened at the big lodge where the kingfisher perched over the tracks and branches that mark home repairs for the beaver
Nothing happens when I stop on the edge of the beaver forest, my entry barred by low water, but my view allowed to pass unobstructed
Nothing happens when I turn to see the nicest man watching me and we talk about stuff for 20 minutes.
Nothing has returned my spirit to its proper place
3 comments:
I cherish your 'nothing'. Beautiful post!
Ah - the fertile void! Thank you, Scott.
beautiful Scott- your journeys are important reminders to others. Thank you.
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