Bloodroot on the Appalachian Trail

Spending time in the woods yesterday reminded me of yet another Mary Oliver poem: ‘How I go to the woods’.

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore
unsuitable.

I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love
you very much.

… bloodroot!

March, so far

March is very sweet. My nine year old daughter looked at one of these photos and said “that’s really dramatic” and I couldn’t agree more. Nature is drama. After months of cold and grey, all of the flowers in these photos pop up for a few weeks out of the year, command attention, and then they disappear for 11 months. If that isn’t drama I don’t know what is.

Critters.