today the morning forest was cool and quiet and the sky above the green canopy was the lightest shade of gray.
Gone were the tiny mirrors of morning water on the huckleberry leaves, along with the sweet pink berries. gone the curious owl twins, and the vigilant call of their mother.
The thick layer of brown powder on the steep trail has gone back to its firm packing between the gnarly roots and rocks, firmer footing for my blue high tops.
No squirrels call or bait my dog Moxy from the low branches, and the brash blue jays seem to be gone today too.
The fog wreathed lake seems less inviting each day, as I tempt my sweaty self to jump in after my two hour hikes, and I start thinking of warmer waters.
Three mossy trees the circumference of my arm lean lazily on a large craggy Douglas fir and scythe like cedar branches dangle, precariously, widow maker style above the trail, reminding me of the amazing windstorm of September, leaving thousands without power for days. the first windstorm after the driest of summers blew poplars and Maples, Alders and others over in the most inconvenient manner.
Our new summer home, a plain old Doublewide at Cedar Grove, across the street from Lake Padden fared well as did the hundred odd other homes collected around a small secret lake and protected by staunch old cedars.
We have visited and been visited by some of our dear ones, although my intentions exceed the actual number of friends, family, old coworkers, old coho users, and painting partners I did indeed spend time with.
I am refreshed by my loving relations, I am nurtured by the forest of my growing up years, but I feel quiet, as if I have nothing to say, still, not sure which way the next wind of desire, which season of muse will move me.
I will clear my throat and try to find my voice again!