I headed out this morning at 6 am and took the northward path through the woods. It was not as I remembered it at all. When I was a teenager, the path wound around the stream which at this point had widened almost to what you would call a river. There used to be a bridge around a bend but the water is so choked with reeds and decades of growth that it is nearly hidden from view. There was a small clearing where I could hear the water spilling over a stone ledge and I made my way to it. I could see that the stream was still there , more primitive looking than I recall. No ducks lingered and the heavy scent of undergrowth makes you want to dig your toes into the earth . It also makes you keenly aware of movement. A rustle there of an unseen creature, the call of birds from the deep wood, all of these things stir up the sense that even in this silence, and it was silent of people, there is noise and life and a world going about its business. I continued to walk and came to a spot I was aware of but had not seen before. Some fellow hiker with a tender heart planted flowers along the embankment. Black eyed Susans and Geraniums were lush along the shore and they looked like the adornments they were intended to be. I decided to turn off on a dirt path that wound around the west side of the stream. Cut off from the main trail , I only came upon two teenage joggers training for a race. There was a stillness everywhere . The only sounds were birds and the crunch of gravel under my feet as I walked. It was a long route , circuitous and winding, I passed cut offs into thickets and at one spot , the clearing revealed the remains of a doll that had been ceremoniously burnt in a ring of fire. What I kept thinking about was that rambling carefree in the woods is a thing of the present. In the past, there were all manner of dangers there. Wildcats screaming like stricken females were the stuff of nightmare in the centuries past. How easy it is to take one's time and explore today when the distant sound of cars and rail road trains remind you that the world is out there, no longer dependent on the rhythm of the natural world. When I was in college I read a trilogy called The Awakening Land by Conrad Richter. In the first novel, he recounts the migration of the Luckett family from Pennsylvania to the Ohio Valley. They walked through woods like mine all the way. I remember that the daughter, Sayward, described the woods as consuming , dwarfing the family as they trudged ever westward to their promised land. I tried to envision that today as I wandered further and further into the center of the Preserve. The trees in the woods are deciduous ones with almost no conifers in sight. That being said, I did see one lone Pine tree, tall and out of place among the oaks, at one point along the path. The sunlight began to bathe the road in gold and I stood there for a minute. I thought, this is how to connect with God, who speaks through His creation. I wanted to absorb the color like honey but a renegade cyclist , ringing his scratchy bell and hollering "on your right!" came barreling through the rocky path , tires wobbling, dispelling not only the mood but the mystery.