Ornaments

When you’re out hiking there are moments when you stop for something not particularly noteworthy, like water or a snack, and while you are stopped you look around and see things you hadn’t noticed yet. This happens to me with such regularity that it wouldn’t surprise me if this is when most explorers have made their great discoveries. I had a moment like this today. It wasn’t exactly a moment of great discovery, but it was special, and I’m not sure I would have caught it while walking.

From the bottom of a small hollow near the Harpeth River, I was drinking and gazing up into the treetops. I noticed the moon and how the sun illumined the branches. This was not the golden glow of a spectacularly beautiful sunset. The sun was still too high for that. This was more a clear, bright, silvery light that distinguished the forms of the branches by its low angle. At that moment, in that place, the light was unique and memorable. Even three vultures soaring low overhead were transformed by the light, the undersides of their giant wings shimmering silver in the light. The moment was subtle, and somehow sublime.

Of all the trees caught in this late-in-the-day stage lighting, most striking was one tall thin sycamore. Its white winter bark nearly glowed against the blue sky. Its high branches were full of large, round seed pods hanging like golden ornaments on an abandoned Christmas tree. It was simple, and somehow captivating.

I’m not sure how long I stared at the ornaments, but it was then that I gradually became aware of the musical sounds of the stream gurgling at my feet. My dog, Sadie, was eagerly drinking the clear, clean water when I realized the stream bounding over the rocks sang as beautifully as any birdsong. I was struggling to tune out the sounds of the nearby interstate when a train’s horn, just a little over ½ mile away, joined in the melody. I know the sound of the horn was just as foreign to the scene as the interstate, but somehow it worked and added to the joyous song.

A single bumblebee works the day’s end in a blooming patch of Lamium. A pair of geese stand frozen by my gaze then in unison slide silently into the river as I back away to leave them in peace. Bright green moss makes emerald cushions to soften and warm the cold, gray rock that are the hillside. The still branches overhead shimmer in the silver glow of the moment.

Like an ornament

the first quarter moon

celebrates among the branches.