Where field meets forest is an interesting place.
Presented with a choice, a line drawn in the land where the grass ends and the trees begin, the explorer is momentarily caught between two worlds. It’s a precarious position, coming from what you’ve known and approaching something unknown. (We always come from somewhere.)
In this case, the rise of a mostly-deciduous forest in the late spring is the unknown. A small meadow is where we’ve been.
At first it feels like a comfort.
Relief and respite from the beating sun.
A cooling balm within the leafy cloak of quietude.
Stands of ostrich and lady ferns line a path that beckons one deeper.
Touch-me-nots rise in mounds of celery green and undersides of silver.
Moss runs up the decaying bark of trees fallen long ago.
Here, at the forest’s edge, it is still light.
There is no hint of the darkness within.
Looking back, the field appears blindingly bright. Where once was a varied landscape of small meadow blooms and the early formation of grass seed heads, now seems like a single veneer of pale green, harsh in the eyes of one already grown accustomed to the forest light.
The path ahead is soft and cool, a welcome contrast from the brittle and the dry, and it slopes gently downward. Everything is pulling you down this path.
The forest quietly closes its verdant door.
