A Change of Faces

Wednesday, September 23, 9:00 a.m. - As soon as I sit down there’s movement above me.  Leaves spiral down around me.  I look up and see nothing.  A bee zips by my face.  Manny has joined me again.  I’ve given him a little more freedom, and I think he appreciates it.  He is becoming braver each second digging his nose deeper and deeper into the trees and weeds away from the trail.  In the distance, construction of some sort disrupts my thinking.  I am only here from time to time and I’m annoyed.  I wonder how the woodland life feels?

A constant humming brings me back to my seat on the log.  I think that the humming is coming from locusts.  Either way, I think back to when I was eleven or twelve years old in California, Pennsylvania at my grandmother’s house.  I remember walking around town picking the miniature, fragile shells from the trees.  The tiny, needle-like legs would stick to my skin; the cloudy yellow shell crackled like broken glass between the sidewalk and my Nike’s.  The dead skins were in such abundance that a feeling of terror came over me.  I felt that at any moment the over-sized skeleton insects would jolt to life, release their grasp of the bark and attack by first digging through my hair.  Crushing them made me feel better.

Back in the woods, the birds have decided to join Manny and I, even though I still see none of them.  I think of Edward Abbey.  What are the birds saying?  Are they saying anything?  They have to be.  One whines as if in pain or in need of some kind of help.  Another sings a beautiful harmony.  Maybe, like people, some are born for American Idol and some just aren’t.  I wonder if the birds would show their colors if I could speak their tongue.  Would they trust me?  (Snow White might be able to give me some tips.)

Leaves are dropping to the floor all around me like a light rainfall.  Everything is changing; the green is quickly becoming different shades of brown, dark reds, candy-corn yellows and oranges.  Nature must be preparing herself for the Halloween season, only her mask is a dead one.  The weeds with the ant-sized seeds that love sticking to my clothes and are decorating Manny’s black fur have become quite a sad sight.  Less than a week ago they stood, strong, healthy, full and green.  Nothing full about them now.  Their leaves are rotten-banana brown and droop towards the soggy ground.

In the leaves at the tips of my feet are an army of ants weaving over and under the leaves.  I move from my log and squat to get a better view.  I’m not sure what they’re doing; it looks chaotic.  They aren’t carrying anything that I can see, but their movement is fleeting.

Movement in the weeds behind me diverts my attention from the ants.  Manny and I go to explore.  Slowly making our way around the trail towards my sighting, I feel my nerves kicking in as if I was going to come face to face with a mountain lion.  I wonder if I will be able to stand my ground for as long as Abbey did with the snakes.  Excited for nothing.  Whatever it was, if anything at all, is gone or well hidden.  Disappointed, I lead Manny out of the woods where I clean his tangled hair before heading home.