Somebody's peace grove was visited by us yesterday. We walked a winding path past hillsides covered in fog and mist; we passed by poison oak in brilliant orange, red, and yellows; and we met a little baby snake along the trail... Beyond the tiny lake where three little waterfowl swam toward us looking for food, beyond the scenic route populated by mosquitoes, we hiked to the top. Looking down, all that our eyes could see were mist and green leaves poking here and there through the dense whiteness. We sat on somebody else's peace stones, sipped water, and felt the cold wind whip through our hair and clothing. We talked a bit about nothing -- just words that floated with the sound of the wind.
The trip up was punctuated by pregnant silences, perhaps b/c I was thinking of too many things. As I neared the peace grove, seeing glimpses of pink flowers and maybe a fern here or there, I was called to listen to the wind -- it rustled mightily and I was just stunned silent. It was hard not to pay attention. The trip back, somehow, seemed other-worldly.
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