Finding the Balance

Tuesday, November 3, 11:00 a.m. - Such a beautiful day.  I truly prefer the dry, crunch leaves opposed to the soggy woodland floor.  The leaves scattered across the woodland floor are no longer reds and yellows.  Faded brown and beige leaves snap, crackle and pop with every step.  The only color remains in the few yellowish green leaves that are still clinging for dear life to branches.  A tree bearing only a handful of dying leaves bends awkwardly against the shadows from the sun.  It dips into a cluster of fallen and broken trees.  Vines dangle and weave throughout holding the depressed mass together.  The vines pull at the U-shaped tree as if insisting the tree join the fallen ones.  I feel the tension, the struggle, as the tree refuses the invitation.  Its slender, antenna-like arms pull back and stick up helping their white, crusted body to stay rooted.

Manny's found a suitable branch for gnawing and fetching.  When I do manage to get the stick from his bleached, shark-ish teeth he shoots like a bullet into the brush to regain his chew toy.  A horizon of red, orange leaves bleeds through the myriad of white branches.  From the carrot top horizon the color fades into a dull grayness.  The sorrow of the fuzzy atmosphere is fitting for my weeping tree.  Maybe once the color is completely engulfed in the shadows of winter, the sad tree will give up the fight.

The oceanic sky is crystal blue.  A few white marshmallow clouds sail in front of the sun like sailboats.  Looking to the sky, I see a branch twisting and dangling from a knot of vines.  As if someone has recently been executed by hanging, the withering noose dances in the wind.  A gust of wind hurls through the air pushing the sailboat puffs towards their destination.  I am caught in the middle.  Death looms all around me, while the beating sun tries to resuscitate the land, maybe even my dying friend, the curling tree.

A deep growl rumbles in front of me.  Manny's tail is as straight as a floor board.  He's erect, ready.  "What is it boy?"  He lets out an almost intimidating round of barks.  I join his vision only to see the trees.  "Go get'em.  Get after'em, boy!"  He ambles through the bushes and begins nibbling on a cluster of weeds.  Whatever it was, if anything, is gone.  Or Manny just chickened out.

The disengaging leaves have opened my view.  In the distance, rooftops seep through into the woods.  They're coming; they've always been coming.  Invading and taking over.  No one, no thing is safe from the construction (or destruction) of man.  Soon my log will be a little boy's front porch.  It won't be his fault.  He has no control.  He has no knowledge of what exists here, now.  I feel sorry for that boy, who will be fenced in like a dog.  Will he wonder about the young man and his dog who used to visit and find solace in the place where is father barbeques?  Doubtful.