[picture is of Warren Pond, with cabin obscured in summer]
In this season, the trees are thick with foliage, obscuring the opposite bank. Through the trunks, however, I can see easily to the bottom of the ravine, where a nearly dry creek bed winds its bare track at the foot of the trees. When I’m here in summer, it’s very hard to know the weather outside of the woods–the trees are such a dense cover that my cabin is in perpetual shade, the sky nearly obscured, so that sun cannot eke through, nor can rain patter its way through unless it’s a downpour. So it is, quite literally, a world set apart here, a little Brigadoon with a different sort of magic. I am encased here, the trees enveloping me, stretching green limbs to enclose me in a muffling shelter. The whistling, trills, and cheeps of birds are a nearer sound than those of my house or the interstate a half mile away, and it is these that I tune my ear to, if anything. They are a lyrical accompaniment to the whisper of my pen sliding across bare pages. This is exactly where I want to be and what I want to be doing.