The ache of spring fever is slowly creeping in. I feel it working its way up through my toes and I think about putting on the running shoes, but I grab the camera instead and decide to take it slow. I walk, long enough for the sun to warm my face, long enough to ease the ache, long enough to wander through woods to water and paths of golden grass.
I smile when I see a sign posted lane, and I wonder what hi-jinks occur between the hours of 6pm and 6am amongst the Amphibian crowd.
I pass dogs and horses and aging lovers. The light on the forest floor shifts between branches and I focus and frame the view in front and to the side of me. Then I remember to turn and take one long look at the path behind, and I realize it is just as beautiful as the one that lies ahead. I try to remember that and I think if only I had a pencil I’d write that down.
And then I smile at myself because, really, my thoughts are not profound enough to require a pencil to commit them to memory.
I drink my fill of shadows and light and sloping hills. I swallow cool air and bird song and feel them strum beneath my chest. I look back and I look forward and I think about how lovely it all is when you’re looking through the right lens.