Perspective

These broad vistas are rare. Most of the time I scramble over rocks, picking my slow way over tree roots, through weeds, and among brambles. I have to swat mosquitoes and watch for mud. I rarely see more than the half-lit forest all around me.

















Surely eyes and voices are wasted on those who have them. These twin boulders have been presiding over this wooded valley since before my ancestors learned how to make fire. There they still stand, blind and mute in ancient splendor. And I pass them by without thinking.

















This mossy chasm, with its walls fifteen feet high, in centuries past may have been the scene of some great act of heroism or cowardice. Or maybe nothing has ever happened here besides the scurrying of woodland creatures, as preoccupied with their own small worries and duties as any modern passerby. There is no knowing.

There's nothing like a wall of ferns to bring things into perspective. Ferns keep their secrets, and one day, they'll wear this boulder down and reduce it to gravel. But not for a long, long time.