Braving the Wilds

Field Notes from the Suburban Jungle

Tag: Robert Frost

Hiking the Shepaug on the Autumnal Equinox

The riverside trail was sprinkled
With the first leaves of Autumn,
Gold, like nature’s first green,
Shades of day that had sprung from dawn,
And tinged with shades of orange-red,
Like last summer’s coral lipstick.

The banks of the river
Eroded, exposing a tangle of
Otherwise hidden roots, the
Infrastructure of trees, naked
And longing for the earth that
The Shepaug had taken,
Turned into silted memory
And deposited into a delta, a mouth,
A place unknown.

Male field crickets hummed a
Lullaby, a subtle harmony,
A last-ditched, encore performance
That would be followed by the
Silence of snow, white and
Unable to refract light and
Bend it into any semblance of color.

For then, the weakened sun,
Distancing itself, warmed
The faces of walkers now
Free from the shade of leaves
That clung precariously to their
Steadfast branches. Treading
Upon an old railroad bed,
Groomed, stretching not to vanishing point,
But to an abyss, a tunnel, a passage,
Where it was almost impossible
To resist the urge to run.


Crossroads, yellow wood
Steering wheel, never could
Avoid lines of a path
Deeply lined with roots.

Choices grooved
Etched from hooves
That matted the trail
With nothing to prove.

Like a feather on air
Carried for fair
Lacking control
And choice, to bear.

Abraham’s will, his alone
With Isaac’s blood, sin atone
Ignoramous, with free will,
Humanistic, cast a stone.

Avenue behind, structured
Interrupted, minute fracture
Forced by nature, power of self
Entrusted, personal rapture.

Boulevard disappears.
Pasture lands, grassy years
Gently separate, give way
To bare feet, and joyful tears.