I took my time getting here. Appreciating a variety of sparrows, a pileated woodpecker, and the first tree frogs of spring. The cold air on my bare hands, visibly dry, forced me off of my bike and for the better. I meandered along the trail greeting fellow forest dwellers human and otherwise. Silent judgement of those with heavy feet followed by stinging repentance.  

I now sit on the giant sycamore that rests its canopy in the creek. The wood is warm and smooth where the sun finds it. The shade side is cold and damp with decay.

The water has dropped nearly five feet in six days to reveal this spot. The bark twists with the current and the lengthy cracks like stretchmarks mimic ripples; curved and nested.

I am distracted, disconnected and uncomfortable.  My thoughts float from woodpecker to weekend activities to assignments to beavers and how hard they could bite if one decided I was too close to the lodge. Perhaps it’s the camera and binoculars dragging on my neck or the imbalance in my brain but I feel physically off center and insecure on my wooded perch. I retreat to the stream bank where I would be caught by wood or stone rather than water. I cross my legs and begin to focus on the breath and the awareness that comes with this. I close my eyes and allow the rambles of the stream and rustles of leaves to harmonize in my ears unfiltered. The glow of the sun, still distant, reddens my view through closed eyes; hardly kissing my face with warmth when the breeze allows. I am out of practice and remain easily distractible. Though l do not stay long in this, the pleasures still are undeniable. When I open my eyes I am momentarily blinded by the unmistakable white light of the ultraviolet calming to blue then baseline. I’ve come to love this feeling. I begin to inch closer to center.

A cooper’s hawk just flew by, sparrows saw it first. For once the chickadees are the second to sound the alarm.  

Early spring is as turbulent a time as any; just days ago I shed layers and rollicked in the shaded tributaries flipping rocks for salamanders and cray fish. Now, with snow in the forecast I listen to desperate tree frogs piping their carnal desires from the woodwork. Clouds take the sun and the breeze picks up. It’s time to leave.