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A Stormy Night Upon The Porch
My dirty bare feet are curled beneath me on a mildly damp patio bench. The porch shelters me from the night storm, but exposes me just enough that my arms are sprinkled with water. In a nearby pond, a duet of rippling chirps is sung back and forth between two frogs. They are hidden by the blackened sky until it is split by purple lighting.
Another Christmas at Sawyer’s Peak
I wake to soft streams of light pouring through the window of my childhood bedroom, and the warmth of a small curled body that has taken liberty to climb under my covers while I slept. Feigning slumber, I peek one eye open to look out the slats of my window blinds, and glimpse a flurry of white fairies littering the crisp winter air. They settle on the lawn and patio like a coating of powdered sugar. I inhale with deep satisfaction. It’s Christmas morning.
Fleeting, Yet Forever: Hiking Millbrook Mountain in Minnewaska State Park
By the end of today I will say to myself: “Why did I have to climb so high?” For my ambition will end in stinging blisters and aching arches as I descend this mountain; but for now, I ignore the warning voice that tells of temperance, and I rise. I rise to where the sky is wide as the sea, where birds fly below me and treetops—speckled with every shade of autumn—look like shrubbery. Here, I can see my mortality in the treacherous edge of the cliff, and my spirit in the hazy blue horizon. We are both fleeting, yet forever.
A Delicate Dance of Death: Fall in New York
I let the nutty flavor of columbian coffee with a hint of cream and sugar linger on my tongue after I sip it. The mug containing it warms my hands as I take a happy step towards the scene. Dried, curled leaves drift silently toward the ground, light as feathers, in a delicate dance of death. They are remarkably fragile underfoot, crackling as I bend and break their thin frames, like the flakes of a croissant.
A Taste of Rivendell: Watkins Glen State Park, NY
The serpent ravine bloats and shrinks in billowing pockets hollowed out of the rock by years of erosion, smooth as the sugar of a well-licked lollipop. Each bowl is filled with emerald green pools caked with foam. Clattering echoes bounce between them amid the distant roar of rushing waves as I peer over the treacherous rim.