Rain. Forest

Luminescent is the slick grass,
bright beside the sombre mossy trees darkly looming.
Sparkling cold flows the stream enjoined,
sprouted strands of whispen hair drawn
From the craggy relief gnarled.
Weathered the face,
gray among the clouds.
Ancient care laden forest silent, watching.
Bedecked the smiling young lawn,
harvesting the lush mist.
Embracing the luxuriant light
breaking beyond mystery's reach.

Footsteps crunching gravel path,
satisfying the repast of rocky kernels
To the rubber tread of boots,
accents to the water's roar.
Din the outpour of the mighty stand.
Rushing electric to find its abode
where destiny has a resting place.

Spreading is the quiet observant gaze gone beyond,
Full, hollow, unperturbed, by quaking thunder.
Struck the tolling bell
Of the hearkening herald's cleaving tear.

Autumn

The still lake is a sheet of glass reflecting in unbroken symmetry the silhouette of the sunburst forest above, bedecked in the colours of autumn's revelry, and crowned in the glory of the fading day.

Cradling the woods in a tender embrace, the bountiful corn fields have ripened to gold and await the thresher, their jewel laden heads swaying gracefully to mark the occasional passing of the silent breeze, with the contentment of having fulfilled their rich purpose.

The allure of the reposed evening air is infused in the mystery of the pregnant silence, satisfied in the fullness of the harvest, bearing the fruit of the summer of application.

Camping

The nectar filled night is fragrantly resting on the calm waters of the lake stretching beyond the horizon under the gaze of the twinkling stars perched in the canopy of the heavens. On every side, the ferocious beauty of the wilderness now sleeps under the night's thick cloak.

Across the lake, a fire burns low and huddled within the light are a group of humans. In the age of modernity, with its comforts and conveniences the primal call of man has called him to his earthen roots. An escape to a simpler time, where the woods and the spirit of the land sang in harmony with the tune of man's elemental life.

This group of urban adventurers now sit within the fire's glow their bright faces gleaming in the flickering light of the flames. Behind them, canoes lie inverted and lashed over the slabs of rock that protrude from their watery posts like fallen sentinels.

Factory Sunset

The sun is setting below the thin smokestacks, a lamp post rises up and illuminates the grey pavement from it's high perch with bright white light giving even the hard ground a metallic glean. Bits of paper litter the thriving lawns of this industrial wilderness. A ground hog has taken up residence below the rocks where trucks every day carry about their cargo.

Multi Color

The Troll

Moody died in the woods before the bounty hunters could find him. His corpse washed down stream and he was fish food. His spirit was only a small speck in a lighthouse of fireflies as it tumbled into the beyond. Some where Moody's destination was to be found in the color of his mind.

Perhaps a cruel world in a cruel form or perhaps he had made it to blessedness. Alas, how many oceans he had crossed to wind up in this poor place he knew not. Seemingly the turn of fate was a twist of endless irony.

Warrior Song

In the days of prehistory, when the plains were wild again. We trod the path of the bison and the caribou. In the harvest of a seal or whale we saw the taste of life. To a wise old shaman did I go. With a toothy grin he smiled gaily the whole day long, though many a winter had creased his brow. His eyes were always in a far off place to the curtain of destiny so twas as if he saw us not.

The woods were wild and the storms mighty, but we knew the way of the old wise man. We saw in nature his many forms and they spoke to us through the wheel of life, and twas as if our nature was one.

In the spring, we made our camp and spoke to heaven in our war dance. The drums rolled to the beat of the clouds and the moose and the beaver heard the song of our passing.

Deep Woods

There is a stillness in the air with the weight of the passing storm. Crisp snow flakes in a lake of trees. The wind has turned this forest into a wood flute whose damp chimes are ringing under the rolling thunder. The angry lake cold and frosty. The peace of the sleeping wood.

The land of fables has come to life, here a perspective has changed. Somewhere echoing through the spirit of these sleeping trees is the act of nature unfolding. Many worlds are colliding, but a gentle breeze pervades that gives the solemn evening the fragrance of a smile.