Being Stalked

In woods twisted and tangled by the elements and the environment, this shapely American Holly always stands out during our walks.

Our morning walks on the trails are akin to prayers. It’s church-quiet in the forest, and while we see a person or two toward the end of our walks, the first five miles are but breaths, footsteps, paws-padding, and birdsong. Some mornings we are accompanied by the wind, but mostly it is just the three of us weaving through the tight trails that rise and fall with the hills.

Lately, we’ve been returning to the forest at dusk, when others are heading home to prepare dinner. The first mile, we make our way through the gloaming, but when night fully falls, I turn on my headlamp. Although we move along many of the same trails, they are unrecognizable in the darkness.

The moon rides above the mists while sitting atop the crooked witch-fingered bare trees of the wind-shaped woodlands. Its glow is haunting and achingly nurturing. I am elevated beyond what bounds me.