Tales Along This Road

The eyes of the beech trees gaze down at me, unblinking, as I meander the trails.  The fibrous muscles of the ironwoods flex in the breeze, poses twisting out over the saturated soil.  A Louisiana water thrush flits from branch to branch along the creek.  I come to a stop because I thought I heard voices; I'm not alone, but I'm the only person out here.  More and more often I hear something like muffled chatter floating on the hillsides in the silent spaces between the churrr of the toads in the evening, just as the sun settles deep into the next valley, or maybe it's the next valley, or the next...

Darkness comes slowly and my eyes adjust.  I hardly notice.  I creep along the banks of Swamp Creek looking for signs of anything at all--animals, mostly--disturbances in the mud, torn logs.  I'm just settling quietly over a vernal pool when the wind picks up; a backlash of winter slices through my sweatshirt.  Peepers peep all around me and yet I see none, so I whisper out loud my fascination with their ability to survive, turn tail and head home, the moon watching all the way.