. I love the trees that meet the water. You don’t see the river bank. Just trees and water. The rivers are sleepy and don’t move fast. I see Indian canoes travelling down the watery trails, heading for the next part of their day. They come out of the trees and launch their boats. Of course, they find a small clearing from which to disembark, but they meet the water as the trees do. With a handshake and a touch.
In the spring time, the barren, spider-webby trees are slowly filled in, the way a painting is . . . one color, one stroke at a time. This day I see the beginning buds that look like fuzz. Tomorrow I see the paint splatter of blossoms. Light greens accented with lighter greens with a counterpoint of dark. The painting is slowly completed until one day all I see is the thick-stuffed blanket of green that nestles and cuddles and snuggles me. The rolling hills surround me and tuck me in, keeping me safe.
I feel tied to the land, the trees, the buildings. I sense the ghosts of my ancestors, and I see the land with my eyes and with theirs as well. My mind sifts through the layers of buildings and progress. I remove the walmarts and gas stations. The 70’s homes and shops. I see fields with cows and grain. I see workers moving tools from the barn, Mom making lunch in the kitchen with the huge fireplace. I see the homes of stone and brick, so elegant in their simplicity. The shutters like eyelids. The chimneys like a beacon . . . Here, here is your home. I see the porches where Sister and Brother shuck corn, where Grandpa lights his pipe and tells a story. I see the gravel and cobblestone hiding beneath the paved road. Narrow roads not meant for modern traveling. They wind and meander the way the rivers do. And lead me through the arms of the hills, so I can be caressed and loved.
