The green fields have begun to fade into a golden tan as the broomsedge claims it’s seasons. Sometimes I think that if we could see the wind that it would be the color of broomsedge. I’ve always associated it with cold windy days. But for now it’s only beginning to appear. The little Dogwood Tree still proudly shows off its handsome maroon attire for the fall splendor so beloved in my mountains. Rolling hills beckons me back to a simpler place in time when the warm fall days were a welcomed chance to roam freely with no expectations of when to be done exploring. The greatest tragedy of adulthood is loss of opportunities to wander through hills and valleys. Sometimes I’d follow a stream through a field like this and continue on into the deep woods on a quest to find the spring that birthed the creek. A fallen branch of Dogwood often served as a staff to push aside the thorns and tangled vegetation or lift a rock to see if anything lived underneath. I never made it to the source of the stream but I would mark my stopping point by tying a knot in the limber twigs of the smaller trees. Sometimes I’d find a cluster of small hemlock trees and braid three of them together so that the next explorer would know the someone had already found that spot. And if I was lucky it would be hundreds of years in the future when the trees were timber sized and fused together. I would always walk back while snickering over the looks on their faces when they laid eyes on the braided trees. The call of a blue jay brings me back to the present as I snap the image of the Dogwood Tree and I wonder if some day in future a small boy will pick up a dead branch from it and head off into the woods on a quest of his own. I hope that he finds one of my braided trees and knows that he’s not alone.
Good night friends and be blessed throughout your days.
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