April 30, 2010
My place is a system. A natural system in one sense, a human system in another. Leaves, branches, and needles decompose, nutrients are released into the soil, trees and wildflowers grow out of the earth, animals eat the seeds and cones and spread new generations of the plants. People come to sit on the stump, they meditate for a period of time, a sense of peace or enrichment is achieved, the visitor leaves, and eventually returns. This spot is an educational system as well. It shows the diverse interactions that can occur as part of and within an urban environment, and can lend insight as to what could be improved in a stretch of city woods.
My place in this system is the watcher, the squirrel intimidator, the one intimidated by seagulls. I witness what is constantly happening here everyday, but that never gets noticed because of its location. I serve as the scribe of this spot, recording the weak trees, the lone squirrel calling to her family across the block, the woodpecker holes scattered like artillery wounds across the pines, the way the sun hits one place, but not the other, leaving a clear difference between the two. I am also a caretaker. I choose not to drive a car to limit my carbon footprint and effect on the system. I try to keep people from walking across the same area over and over to avoid the breaking of roots. I tell people that, even though an area is not heavily wooded does not mean that it isn’t important for the enrichment of both animals and humans.
This place has surprised me. My initial visits were purely out of necessity due to mobility issues, and I found the place to be, well, pathetic. The pine limbs are sparse, there are a few lonely hardwoods, the shrubbery looked grumpy, and so much sun came through the canopy. But somehow, my place came to grow on me, which after the things I just listed, was a bit surprising. It was comforting to know that, without a long hike, a bike ride, or a car adventure, I had access to a spot that was just as natural as any of my other options. Perhaps it has been very much impacted by humanity, but we are a part of nature as well, and it will be interesting to see how humans and nature have changed this spot in fifty years. The signs of wildlife was also a revelation for me, as I came to realize, despite having been told this, that animals will adapt to an area if it has ample food and shelter space for them. I saw woodpeckers, squirrels, a cardinal, chickadees, and other small birds, and it was wonderful to see that a little fragmentation was not keeping them from living here in Burlington. This has encouraged me, made me hopeful that the adaptability of these creatures to live in an urban environment will carry over to influence their response to climate change. My place has given me comfort and fostered my curiosity about the world around me within Burlington, a place I had once discounted as being too urban for me, and for that I am grateful.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Event Map
April 23, 2010
Most of my events are centered around the stump in my spot, and most of my travels use the stump as a center point. I found my squirrel to be the most intriguing "event" of my visit, so she has her own corner of the page to show that. I think that my attentions were very focused this day, considering that I didn't feel the need for much background imagery. (Click on it to see it in a larger size.)
Most of my events are centered around the stump in my spot, and most of my travels use the stump as a center point. I found my squirrel to be the most intriguing "event" of my visit, so she has her own corner of the page to show that. I think that my attentions were very focused this day, considering that I didn't feel the need for much background imagery. (Click on it to see it in a larger size.)
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Spanning time.
April 13, 2010
Today is one of those days when I feel warm simply because the sun is shining down on me. I forget my cold fingertips, ignore the chilly wind breezing through the thin material of my sweatshirt. To think, there are a mere three weeks left for classes… Time flies I guess. Pondering what my spot may have looked like 50 years ago is a bit challenging for me. For some reason looking to the future is easier than trying to backtrack. Maybe that says something about me, but I don’t really know. I would guess that my little patch of white pine was at one time a cleared field, considering that white pine is a primary successional species, taking advantage of the abundant sun and growing quickly, but that process would have begun more than fifty years ago. There is a lone maple tree in my spot (or maybe oak, I can’t entirely remember and the leaves are still hidden in their cocoons), so maybe the soils are fertile, but I would venture to say, based on the present state of the white pine trees, the soil is not very good so it wasn’t prime farmland. Limbs sagging, bark chipped, woodpecker holes up and down their trunks, the pines are in a sad state. My guess is that the entire area was once wooded, a long long time ago, but when UVM established Redstone campus the trees were either cleared with some patchy regrowth allowed, or the spot where I sit today was allowed to remain. Fifty years from now, I can imagine an entirely different setting for my sit spot. Actually, I have two potential futures for these pines. My first is that lilac bushes will be scattered throughout, along with some more maples and other species that take advantage of the sunbeams coming through newly formed openings in the dying pine canopy. Hardwoods will begin to replace softwoods, and the area will be home to some new birds, as UVM makes an effort to restore wooded areas on campus. My alternative idea is that UVM will chop down all my trees within the next 25 years, and begin to landscape this section of Redstone, disallowing any new growth and trying to maintain a clean cut, artificial looking natural space. But that’s not something I hope to see fifty years from now. In an ideal world, my wish to see more trees and more native plants at UVM will be realized, and there will be small nature education areas scattered throughout the campus. But we shall see what time brings. . .
Today is one of those days when I feel warm simply because the sun is shining down on me. I forget my cold fingertips, ignore the chilly wind breezing through the thin material of my sweatshirt. To think, there are a mere three weeks left for classes… Time flies I guess. Pondering what my spot may have looked like 50 years ago is a bit challenging for me. For some reason looking to the future is easier than trying to backtrack. Maybe that says something about me, but I don’t really know. I would guess that my little patch of white pine was at one time a cleared field, considering that white pine is a primary successional species, taking advantage of the abundant sun and growing quickly, but that process would have begun more than fifty years ago. There is a lone maple tree in my spot (or maybe oak, I can’t entirely remember and the leaves are still hidden in their cocoons), so maybe the soils are fertile, but I would venture to say, based on the present state of the white pine trees, the soil is not very good so it wasn’t prime farmland. Limbs sagging, bark chipped, woodpecker holes up and down their trunks, the pines are in a sad state. My guess is that the entire area was once wooded, a long long time ago, but when UVM established Redstone campus the trees were either cleared with some patchy regrowth allowed, or the spot where I sit today was allowed to remain. Fifty years from now, I can imagine an entirely different setting for my sit spot. Actually, I have two potential futures for these pines. My first is that lilac bushes will be scattered throughout, along with some more maples and other species that take advantage of the sunbeams coming through newly formed openings in the dying pine canopy. Hardwoods will begin to replace softwoods, and the area will be home to some new birds, as UVM makes an effort to restore wooded areas on campus. My alternative idea is that UVM will chop down all my trees within the next 25 years, and begin to landscape this section of Redstone, disallowing any new growth and trying to maintain a clean cut, artificial looking natural space. But that’s not something I hope to see fifty years from now. In an ideal world, my wish to see more trees and more native plants at UVM will be realized, and there will be small nature education areas scattered throughout the campus. But we shall see what time brings. . .
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Patterned Life
April 4, 2010
Shoots of green grass tentatively poke their young heads through the pine needle strewn floor. The lilac buds have burst on the sunny side of the bush, showing fragile young leaves where there were once only small green nubs. The smell of a neighbor’s Easter ham is wafts by, carried by the incoming breeze, mingling with the fresh scent of pine trees, refreshed and rejuvenated by the seventy-degree weather of the preceding days. There is the distant beat of drums mixed with the rustling of old leaves in the wind. My squirrel friend is eying me yet again. We stare for at least five minutes, my inquisitive gaze meeting the cautiously terrified stare of the poor creature. All the while my partner in watching is voicing its nervousness with a creaky cry, and I wonder what exactly it is saying and who it is talking to. I am the first to look away, but I find something equally intriguing: holes, bored into the pine trees, dripping fresh sap. Were they chewed or drilled? Did a bug or a bird or a squirrel do this? The holes exist only on the trees with few understory branches, with evidence of boring from previous seasons. Fascinating… but I’m not sure how to answer my questions yet. The pattern of vocalizations from my squirrel is what I find myself drawn back to again, and I wonder, could I talk back? I give it a try and am met with a curious and confused glare from around the back of the tree that my squirrel has retreated to. I think that this squirrels series of cries and mumblings are my favorite pattern in this spot. Although the cries do not come in a pattern, there is a distinct similarity between varies vocalizations. This squirrel’s voice seems to convey emotions, fears, upcoming events, and I find it interesting how squirrels from far separated trees are responding. I know that she (I’ve decided this squirrel is a girl), must be warning her friends and family, and I can’t help but think of the evolution of one cry into a more complex one. Imagine starting with one call and moving on to new, more intricate ones. I wonder if her vocabulary is as diverse as my own. I leave, and look back to see her watching me go. Maybe she’ll be a little kinder upon my return. Or maybe she'll have a new call to signal that "it's just that human who sits and watches us."
Shoots of green grass tentatively poke their young heads through the pine needle strewn floor. The lilac buds have burst on the sunny side of the bush, showing fragile young leaves where there were once only small green nubs. The smell of a neighbor’s Easter ham is wafts by, carried by the incoming breeze, mingling with the fresh scent of pine trees, refreshed and rejuvenated by the seventy-degree weather of the preceding days. There is the distant beat of drums mixed with the rustling of old leaves in the wind. My squirrel friend is eying me yet again. We stare for at least five minutes, my inquisitive gaze meeting the cautiously terrified stare of the poor creature. All the while my partner in watching is voicing its nervousness with a creaky cry, and I wonder what exactly it is saying and who it is talking to. I am the first to look away, but I find something equally intriguing: holes, bored into the pine trees, dripping fresh sap. Were they chewed or drilled? Did a bug or a bird or a squirrel do this? The holes exist only on the trees with few understory branches, with evidence of boring from previous seasons. Fascinating… but I’m not sure how to answer my questions yet. The pattern of vocalizations from my squirrel is what I find myself drawn back to again, and I wonder, could I talk back? I give it a try and am met with a curious and confused glare from around the back of the tree that my squirrel has retreated to. I think that this squirrels series of cries and mumblings are my favorite pattern in this spot. Although the cries do not come in a pattern, there is a distinct similarity between varies vocalizations. This squirrel’s voice seems to convey emotions, fears, upcoming events, and I find it interesting how squirrels from far separated trees are responding. I know that she (I’ve decided this squirrel is a girl), must be warning her friends and family, and I can’t help but think of the evolution of one cry into a more complex one. Imagine starting with one call and moving on to new, more intricate ones. I wonder if her vocabulary is as diverse as my own. I leave, and look back to see her watching me go. Maybe she’ll be a little kinder upon my return. Or maybe she'll have a new call to signal that "it's just that human who sits and watches us."
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
New Directions
March 30, 2010
From a new direction, things seem a little off.
Vaguely familiar, but not quite right...
Who would have thought trees had backsides, totally different from their fronts?
The lilacs, the large rock, the pines, they're all the same, no roots have lifted and moved.
Yet I still feel an eerie sense of changedness, and I stop for a moment to take in the newness.
As small as this stand of trees is, the gray weather leaves me looking over my shoulder for the Big Bad Wolf... Or maybe it's the Big Bad Seagull I should fear.
There it is now, my stump, my homeplace in this piece of woods.
A slight rotation to the left and all is right again.
I sit, relieved. I hear the familiar crackling noise of a squirrel's midday pinecone snack.
And now, I wonder, in which direction will I leave?
From a new direction, things seem a little off.
Vaguely familiar, but not quite right...
Who would have thought trees had backsides, totally different from their fronts?
The lilacs, the large rock, the pines, they're all the same, no roots have lifted and moved.
Yet I still feel an eerie sense of changedness, and I stop for a moment to take in the newness.
As small as this stand of trees is, the gray weather leaves me looking over my shoulder for the Big Bad Wolf... Or maybe it's the Big Bad Seagull I should fear.
There it is now, my stump, my homeplace in this piece of woods.
A slight rotation to the left and all is right again.
I sit, relieved. I hear the familiar crackling noise of a squirrel's midday pinecone snack.
And now, I wonder, in which direction will I leave?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
In like a lion...
March 23, 2010
The saying is March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Well, I want to know what last week was, unless it was supposed to be a lion cub...
Anyway, sitting at my spot on this chilly, soggy, gloomy day, I just could not rid myself of a nagging sense that I was being watched. When I turned to identify my watcher, I was surprised, and unnerved to say the least, to find a seagull staring directly at me. It proceeded to pick up a drowned worm with its large yellow beak and, while continuing to watch me, swallow its prize like a piece of spaghetti. Perhaps it was a subtle display of dominance, or it wanted to make sure I didn’t steal its worm…Then I heard a crackling noise, as though someone was peeling Velcro apart. I turned around again to see a squirrel perched in its lilac bush gnawing on a pinecone as we would corn on the cob. I can’t help but laugh to myself about this little squirrel, less than 2 feet away, chewing on a pine cone like there’s no tomorrow. Of the trees that I looked at surrounding my spot, only lilacs and red maple appeared to be budding. The tall white pines didn’t seem to have any new growth, but looking up at them I have to admit they are somewhat sickly looking. There is also a rhododendron nearby, but it has its waxy leaves all year round, so I didn’t notice anything new or unusual about it. I think that the lilac buds are what excite me the most, and I can’t wait to be enveloped in their sweet perfume when warmer weather makes its way into town. It will truly be a treat to see if it’s a white or purple lilac (although judging by reddish tinge to the buds I would say it’s a purple lilac … but I could be wrong). Hopefully when I return I will not be faced with a territorial sea bird, although its fierceness was quite admirable. Because I don’t have a camera I will scan some sketches of buds later today/tomorrow to post here.
The saying is March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Well, I want to know what last week was, unless it was supposed to be a lion cub...
Anyway, sitting at my spot on this chilly, soggy, gloomy day, I just could not rid myself of a nagging sense that I was being watched. When I turned to identify my watcher, I was surprised, and unnerved to say the least, to find a seagull staring directly at me. It proceeded to pick up a drowned worm with its large yellow beak and, while continuing to watch me, swallow its prize like a piece of spaghetti. Perhaps it was a subtle display of dominance, or it wanted to make sure I didn’t steal its worm…Then I heard a crackling noise, as though someone was peeling Velcro apart. I turned around again to see a squirrel perched in its lilac bush gnawing on a pinecone as we would corn on the cob. I can’t help but laugh to myself about this little squirrel, less than 2 feet away, chewing on a pine cone like there’s no tomorrow. Of the trees that I looked at surrounding my spot, only lilacs and red maple appeared to be budding. The tall white pines didn’t seem to have any new growth, but looking up at them I have to admit they are somewhat sickly looking. There is also a rhododendron nearby, but it has its waxy leaves all year round, so I didn’t notice anything new or unusual about it. I think that the lilac buds are what excite me the most, and I can’t wait to be enveloped in their sweet perfume when warmer weather makes its way into town. It will truly be a treat to see if it’s a white or purple lilac (although judging by reddish tinge to the buds I would say it’s a purple lilac … but I could be wrong). Hopefully when I return I will not be faced with a territorial sea bird, although its fierceness was quite admirable. Because I don’t have a camera I will scan some sketches of buds later today/tomorrow to post here.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Home Sweet Home
March 12, 2010
Being home is so peaceful. I wish I could teleport myself from Burlington back to Wantage so I could have a sit-spot near my house. Not that I don't like Burlington, but there's something about my home place that I connect to with such ease. All I hear is the snow melt running down to the stream, the rumblings of an occasional car or truck passing by, the animals in the barn, and the songs and calls of dozens of birds. There are the rude old blue jays, little flashes of red that I know are male cardinals in pursuit of a lady friend, three types of woodpeckers (who like to serve as my unwanted alarm clock), nuthatches, sparrows, crows, chickadees, a mockingbird and some hawks. I even saw a pair of blue birds the other day, contently sitting next to each other on a set of telephone lines soaking up the sunshine. If spring isn’t on its way here, nature is playing a cruel trick. There are definitely more tree buds here than back in Vermont, and judging by the sheer number of birds I would say that migrations are in full swing, and perhaps a little earlier than usual based on my blue bird sighting. There’s still quite a bit of snow on the ground, but wherever the snow is absent the ground ranges from brownish, spongy grass to squelching brown slime that sucks my rubber boots off. The changing of seasons seems right on schedule for this year, although the weather has definitely been fairly sporadic, leading to what seems to be confusion amongst the animals here. It's been sunny and in the high 40s to low 50s everyday this week, and my dad is ready to start seeding, the cows and sheep are anxious to be grazing on sweet green grass, and my brothers are ready to have longer days so they can be outside longer. I don't think it's quite spring time yet, but it is certainly on its way. There's that saying: March is in like a lion, out like a lamb. We'll see when the lamb-ness begins and then I'll decide if the seasons are normal here or not.
Being home is so peaceful. I wish I could teleport myself from Burlington back to Wantage so I could have a sit-spot near my house. Not that I don't like Burlington, but there's something about my home place that I connect to with such ease. All I hear is the snow melt running down to the stream, the rumblings of an occasional car or truck passing by, the animals in the barn, and the songs and calls of dozens of birds. There are the rude old blue jays, little flashes of red that I know are male cardinals in pursuit of a lady friend, three types of woodpeckers (who like to serve as my unwanted alarm clock), nuthatches, sparrows, crows, chickadees, a mockingbird and some hawks. I even saw a pair of blue birds the other day, contently sitting next to each other on a set of telephone lines soaking up the sunshine. If spring isn’t on its way here, nature is playing a cruel trick. There are definitely more tree buds here than back in Vermont, and judging by the sheer number of birds I would say that migrations are in full swing, and perhaps a little earlier than usual based on my blue bird sighting. There’s still quite a bit of snow on the ground, but wherever the snow is absent the ground ranges from brownish, spongy grass to squelching brown slime that sucks my rubber boots off. The changing of seasons seems right on schedule for this year, although the weather has definitely been fairly sporadic, leading to what seems to be confusion amongst the animals here. It's been sunny and in the high 40s to low 50s everyday this week, and my dad is ready to start seeding, the cows and sheep are anxious to be grazing on sweet green grass, and my brothers are ready to have longer days so they can be outside longer. I don't think it's quite spring time yet, but it is certainly on its way. There's that saying: March is in like a lion, out like a lamb. We'll see when the lamb-ness begins and then I'll decide if the seasons are normal here or not.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
March 2, 2010 - My "sense" of place
March 2, 2010
Well, once again, I missed out on most of the snow at my spot. The ground is soft and squishy, with water pooling up around my shoes with every step. The snow that is left shows signs of squirrels, dogs, and humans, but not much else, anything smaller probably melted away. I need to spend a moment lamenting for the trees around me, many of which lost limbs to the heavy snows of last week. The boughs lay there, useless, broken, forgotten, and I offer them my respect. As I was walking to my spot today I stopped to feel the sunbeams filtering through the clouds onto my face, and I momentarily revel in the warmth. Sunny winter days, when the sun warms your body while the brisk air gently cools it, are some of my favorite days. I noticed on my walk today, that on my way to my stump there is a gorgeous view of Mount Mansfield that I had never been able to see before as a result of clouds. It’s stunning, and I wish I saw the mountains more often. Back to my spot, I have started with my silent, blind sitting, I listen. And listen. And listen. I don’t feel very patient today, but I know that sound is an important part of my place because of its location so I should be more focused. What I do hear is sirens, and two different birds. My problem with birds is that, unless I see them (with the exception of blue jays, chickadees, geese and a few others) I don’t have a clue what they are. I know one of them, the crow, by its grating “caw,” but there’s a small trilling chirp that I can’t quite place. Touch is more important to me today, as I pick up sprigs of white pine from the ground and feel the smoothness in one direction contrast with a resistance in the opposite. It’s interesting how something can be so smooth and yet so rough at the same time, and I am reminded of the sensation of a cat’s lick. I’m not daring enough to lick or taste anything in my spot, but I can attest to smell: I smell manure. The UVM farm must be spreading or moving crap because it has sneakily entered into my sanctuary and interrupted my observations as I begin to reminisce about my home. I never thought I would miss the smell of cows…
Well, once again, I missed out on most of the snow at my spot. The ground is soft and squishy, with water pooling up around my shoes with every step. The snow that is left shows signs of squirrels, dogs, and humans, but not much else, anything smaller probably melted away. I need to spend a moment lamenting for the trees around me, many of which lost limbs to the heavy snows of last week. The boughs lay there, useless, broken, forgotten, and I offer them my respect. As I was walking to my spot today I stopped to feel the sunbeams filtering through the clouds onto my face, and I momentarily revel in the warmth. Sunny winter days, when the sun warms your body while the brisk air gently cools it, are some of my favorite days. I noticed on my walk today, that on my way to my stump there is a gorgeous view of Mount Mansfield that I had never been able to see before as a result of clouds. It’s stunning, and I wish I saw the mountains more often. Back to my spot, I have started with my silent, blind sitting, I listen. And listen. And listen. I don’t feel very patient today, but I know that sound is an important part of my place because of its location so I should be more focused. What I do hear is sirens, and two different birds. My problem with birds is that, unless I see them (with the exception of blue jays, chickadees, geese and a few others) I don’t have a clue what they are. I know one of them, the crow, by its grating “caw,” but there’s a small trilling chirp that I can’t quite place. Touch is more important to me today, as I pick up sprigs of white pine from the ground and feel the smoothness in one direction contrast with a resistance in the opposite. It’s interesting how something can be so smooth and yet so rough at the same time, and I am reminded of the sensation of a cat’s lick. I’m not daring enough to lick or taste anything in my spot, but I can attest to smell: I smell manure. The UVM farm must be spreading or moving crap because it has sneakily entered into my sanctuary and interrupted my observations as I begin to reminisce about my home. I never thought I would miss the smell of cows…
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Aerial Map of my Sit Spot
February 23, 2010
This past week I had been putting off visiting my sit spot in hopes that some snow would fall and offer me a more exact idea of what travels through the clearing in my sit spot... my advice for life: don't let the weather forecast get your hopes up, invariably it will be wrong. Anyway, I finally got there today, and as I began my walk, lo and behold, giant almost painfully large snowflakes began to fall from the sky. Just my luck I guess. I quickly mapped out my area because my sketchbook wasn't responding well to the wet fluffiness that fell upon its pages. It was eerily quiet today, my squirrel friends were not around peering at me, so I assume they were off someplace looking for some food, but who knows, maybe I just didn't stay still long enough for them to find me.
Here's a scan of my map, if you click on it you can see the whole thing (formatting this was a huge hassle):
This past week I had been putting off visiting my sit spot in hopes that some snow would fall and offer me a more exact idea of what travels through the clearing in my sit spot... my advice for life: don't let the weather forecast get your hopes up, invariably it will be wrong. Anyway, I finally got there today, and as I began my walk, lo and behold, giant almost painfully large snowflakes began to fall from the sky. Just my luck I guess. I quickly mapped out my area because my sketchbook wasn't responding well to the wet fluffiness that fell upon its pages. It was eerily quiet today, my squirrel friends were not around peering at me, so I assume they were off someplace looking for some food, but who knows, maybe I just didn't stay still long enough for them to find me.
Here's a scan of my map, if you click on it you can see the whole thing (formatting this was a huge hassle):
February 16, 2010
February 16, 2010
Today, by my personal standards, was an almost balmy day. My nose and ears were not turned burning red and my fingers did not begin to feel stiff, although the slight wind that has begun to pick up carries an arctic chill with it. It has been overcast all day today, with the threat of snow both in the clouds and in my barometrically tuned knees. I sat on my stump, staring up into the trees for a while, hoping to see more than the family of squirrels who I shared company with last week, but, sadly, not much action was going on. I witnessed the occasional chickadee, picking at the needles and flying away in dissatisfaction, and I felt the judging glances of the squirrels who continued to peer at me from above. The sounds I heard were mostly crows, “caw”ing their greetings and taunts, mingling in an olfactory setting with the chickadee chirps and some sparrows (I think they were sparrows, but don’t hold me to that just yet). There was a lot of rustling happening in the pines today, as the squirrels moved a little faster than last week – maybe it’s because of the relative warmth of today. There are no tracks that I can witness, although I am sure that the pine needles that carpet the floor of the Redstone woods have felt many a footstep upon them today. In coming weeks, I think I may begin to see more birds, but larger wildlife (aside from humans) is questionable based on my location. Maybe a raccoon or possum will wind its way through, on a winter adventure gone awry through some misdirection, or maybe I will continue to startle unsuspecting students. Right now I think I will focus on the birds, and wait to see what kinds of migrations begin or end here.
February 9, 2010
February 9, 2010
It’s one of those sunny winter days today, the kind of day where the brilliant blue sky and light filtering through the window almost convince me that spring is here. Alas, I come to find that it is cold enough for my fingers to throb in a stiff and cold complaint about my lack of gloves. I am sitting in the woods on Redstone campus, on an old, weathered stump, wondering why there seemed to be so many more trees the last time I was here. . . I am at this particular spot, not purely out of choice, but mostly because of physical limitations. But I do like it here. The stump I am perched upon is located on the edge of a small clearing of sorts, and the sun is angled in such a way that everything has an almost otherworldly glow, and it is conveniently warming my face. The squirrels are nimbly maneuvering through what I can only describe as a playground of conifers and bushes, eyeing me questioningly from a distance. Although this place is close to humanity, all that I hear of it is muffled. Instead of cars, I hear the light crunch of snow beneath my feet, cushioned by a thick layer of moss and pine needles. I hear a bird deeply focused on creating a cacophony of mock agony, and I hear the chatterings of squirrels, along with the slight rustlings of smaller winter birds. This place has a unique separation, a semi-microcosmic feel, that I think I will come to embrace over the course of time. The woods seem weary, and I hope to see their heavy limbs perk up when the ground begins to warm. I need to find my sketchbook, so I can show you small pieces of this place, and so that maybe I will come to confirm in my mind that nature is not just found on a mountain.
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