Where the Wild Things Are

Friday, October 16, 2:15 p.m. - My breath, little white clouds disappearing in front of my face, dances in the air.  Winter is here.  My fingers and my nose sting from the bitter air.  The trails are gone.  Leaves - yellow, red, brown, black - cover the ground.  My log is soaking and rotting away.  The recent rain has turned everything into an oatmeal mush.  The green that remains screams out against the dull, dreary backdrop refusing to give up the fight against change.  Birds are at full throttle like it is the first day of spring.  It's not raining, but the birds above my head bounce from limb to limb causing for mini spurts of rainfall.

Manny is chewing on everything - weeds, leaves, even my log assisting to its destruction.  No one seems to be out and about today.  Silence creeps through the trees and across the sinking ground.  Out of nowhere Manny takes off like he's caught scent of something irresistible.  He sprints kicking up leaves and mud past my feet and then comes to a sudden stop.  He runs back and forth three or four times, until he hydroplanes and nose-dives off the trail.  He slowly regains his composure, gives his body a shake, and resumes sniffing and chewing on the growth.

I'm not looking for gray hawks; I'm not looking for anything in particular.  I move from the log before I become a frozen shard for Manny to chew on.  About thirty feet from my normal spot is an opening of trees that is landscaped by the chalky sky.  Most of the trees have some vegetation, although discolored, but one tree stands out.  It bears no leaves; it is naked.  Only the branches sticking out like arms of a giant coat rack occupy the space.  Unlike the others, it welcomes the cold having already shed its medallions of spring and fall.

Here, I witness a "silly playfulness of the birds."  Some are so small they seem almost toy-like.  Two of them dodge and weave around each other.  One shouts, "Tag, you're it," after slightly nipping at the other's dark feathers.  Being in the woods or seeing nature always takes me back to a child.  It makes me think of a different world.  I think of Where the Wild Things Are (probably because of the recent movie), and I imagine myself on mystical adventures exploring the unknown, the dark places, getting out of this space.

A gust of wind bullies my head into my hood and my hands into my coat sleeves.  My boots sinking into the muddy quicksand are covered with leaves.  Many snaps, again, and begins another sprinting session.  He would spend eternity running through the trees, nibbling on leaves and bark, or tip-toeing across little creeks, if it weren't for me.  When he finds himself tangled in the weeds, I tell him that it's time to go.  He sits at my feet in a pile of leaves and stares at me with a face of disappointment.  We walk out of the woods and head to the dry, warm comfort of home.