I was listening for Bigfoot.
A stone, transformed, hopped across the path, deeper into the shadows. Toads always seem grumpy. I could almost him muttering as he scooted out of the way of my nearly-blind boots. Almost.
Better to hear nothing.
The rushing clouds swooped in towards the mountain, half-obscuring the ripening Harvest Moon.
The filtered light overflowed the streambank in a glade, setting a mysterious stage for elves or frogs or anything invisible from the airplanes high overhead. What did the travelers see when they looked down, after leaving the city lights, knotted like a a snarl of Christmas lights hastily stored?
This isn’t flyover country–quite. It’s on the margins of wilderness, the fringes of relevance, something exactly relatable to my phase in life, a place to feel pebbles and acorns underfoot on an evening stroll, and to wonder what the train whistle means as it haunts the distance.
I pondered, ambling along, enjoying the moonlight.
The stream hurried through the culvert, silvery-gray among lead banks, and the Moon, seven hours from full, turned the mountain and pastures and slumbering beehives all to pewter.
Bigfoot stayed quiet. So did the pines. The wind stayed aloft, rushing, racing more clouds, showing off for the Moon. Across the land, along millions of acres unseen by the rest of us reading blogs and Tweeting furiously and arguing, countless glades filled with that pewter light.
Probably.
I thought you’d like to know.
Cue the Redbone, and take a moment to notice the Moon this evening.
–Josh