Some Company in the Woods

Thursday, September 17, 10:00 a.m. - This morning I decided to bring one of my good friends to my spot in the woods.  Before journeying into the woods, he insisted I walk him through the neighborhood.  Manny is my sleek black lab who is not even a year old.  The woods I refer to are located a street over from mine behind the houses across the street from my house.  My house is in a housing plan off Route 19 called Glencannon.

Eager to show Manny my place, I encourage him not to stop at every mailbox in every yard to sniff the ground.  Once we reach the opening in the woods, I feel more welcome than I did last time when it was later in the day.  The clover surrounding the entrance is plentiful and green.

Finally, we reach our destination and Manny begins to use his super senses to explore.  I take my usual seat on the log.  The woods seem more lively in the morning; I hear a wider variety of singing birds.  The sun dives through the trees dropping golden bars of light onto the ground.  Manny's found a relaxing spot in a pile of brown leaves with a stick that seems a bit too long.  He manages to cut it down to size.

I can't help but notice the diversity of weeds surrounding me.  I still have no clue what I'm looking at, but I'm attempting to draw some of them.  (I hope my writing is better than my drawing, or I'm screwed.)  The weeds that I enjoy most are the taller ones that are grouped in threes.  Their tiny flowers atop are white, which makes them stand out from everything else that is dying brown or thriving green.  Maybe next time a field guide would help.

A hard gust of wind pushes the trees around in a synchronized motion causing a whirlwind of green and yellow leaves.  My log is scattered with moss;  the bases of trees around me are covered in moss.  The moss also climbs to certain spots of the tree trunks.  The moisture and softness reminds me of Gift talking about walking barefoot on it.  Too bad there's not a nice carpet of moss around me now.

I hear birds flying over head.  One sounds like it is squealing; others talk in ways that I'm struggling to find words to describe.  The birds are like Navy Seals, camouflaged within the branches and leaves.  The sun isn't helping either.  Now that I hear the sound, again, I don't think it is a bird.  It sounds like a creaking wooden floor or even hinges on a door that need greased.

The sun points out glistening cob webs that are connecting three thin trees like they are holding them from crashing to the woodland floor.  Things seem to have calmed since Manny and I have been here.  Maybe we've disturbed the population of the woods, like when you walk into your first class at a new school.  The normal chatter comes to a whisper as everyone stares and wonders about the new kid.

I've sort of forgot about Manny as he rummages through a tangle of weeds.  He exits covered in tiny prick-lies, which obviously I have also failed to correctly identify.  On our way home, I spot a patch of dandelions in my neighbors yard.  I grab one and attempt to color Manny's black coat against his will.  The yellow doesn't smear quite as well as it used to against my classmates skin.