My husband makes so much fun of my hippie throwback, tree hugging, one with the universe, groovy kind of love affair with nature. Don't get me wrong, he's very respectful of my free spirit. He walks with me down hiking trails, and even carries the backpack. He oohs and aahs at every photograph with enthusiastic interest -- even if it's nothing more than a tangled mess of tree roots. But sometimes his humorous observations of me are so true that even I can't help but double over in hysterics.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
It was around seven o'clock, and a few of us still loitered around the table, finished with the meal, but not yet motivated to move on. As it often does, my gaze traveled to the triple window in the dining room, to marvel at the western view, searching through the trees for the bare wood footbridge that stretches across the marshland. It's where the deer emerge, and then follow the creek up into our back yard. It's where the moccasins arch their backs up out of the high grass to warm their skin in the Springtime sun. But something was different this time.