The Quiet Places

In the dim light of evening my boots graze the dew on the grasses that line the path leading to the forested park.

The quiet shadows can hear my deep breath, and feel the emerging steamy fog as it meets the fresh, crisp air of the twilight.

This long road leading into the park always waits for my arrival, and the stretching trees call me into their evergreen bosom, to the deeper folds of the darkened forest.

I move on, wanting to go deeper, into the dark moist quiet soul-trees but the closer I get to the darkness, the more my vision fades.

Instincts overrule and I snake along the peripheral of the blackness, flirting with the mystery but staying just out of reach.

There is stillness in my movement, a quiet stillness that asks nothing and gives everything.

It speaks to me softly, caressing my spirit and cleansing me of the stresses and worries of the day.

If the moon tries to follow me, I sing to it and the rhythm of my step finds its way into my song as I lose my shyness and sing without reservation.

Inevitably, my snake loop brings me back to the cars, the headlights and boomboxes.

Waiting for the break in traffic, I often feel a yearning to keep walking, for miles or maybe even days.

I might find myself on the top of the Strathcona Mountains or perhaps gliding through the shale beaches on the west coast.

The traffic breaks and I cross the road, to the driveway that leads me back to the dishes, the homework help and the laundry.

But I bring the quiet places through the gate with me, tucked deeply into my fleece pockets. And I know that the forest still rings with my footsteps and song, burying my discarded burdens in the musty humus.