A thunder storm is pounding away just south of home.
I tug on well-worn walking shoes, grab the leashes from their spot by the back door, whistle for the dogs, and set out for the evening's hike.
The scent of fresh rain and soggy soil welcomes me as I press quickly through the yard and along the night-black asphalt of the back alley. City walks hold little charm; I know that a short jog will get me to the edge of town and into the outskirts of the farmers' field.
I'm always wary of trodding on his wheat crop. It feels sacrilegious to even think of trampling the product of something so innately Canadian. I steer the dogs away from growing stalks and we make our way around the crops' edge. The path there is worn and packed hard--testimony to other urban hopefuls straining for a taste of country air. The air: blissfully free of mosquito's (thank God!) and rich with smells of earth and sky. A perfectly cool breeze is nipping at the end parts of that thunder storm.
Lightening flashes to the east and south. Straight up and down, sky to earth blasts of light and electricity. We navigate around a patch of thicket and critter-filled brush and strike out across a patch of wild grass. I love this wooly corridor that edges city and farmland alike. I know that if I direct my steps rightly, I can wander in the wild stuff for a long way.
There is no worn path through this part of the field, and soon my five foot two inch frame is dwarfed by wild grasses and purple-topped thistles. I have a momentary twinge of jitters, wondering what exactly may be lurking in the deeps around my feet. Like a swimmer in a deep, dark lake, the chilling promise that "there might be something down there," sends goose bumps up and down my spine.
The recent rain has made the trudging soggy work; the flared legs of my blue jeans are soon sounding a satisfying "thwomp, thwomp" as I press forward through the green and growing things. Wild flowers spring up in surprising mounds and clumps and wispy tufts~~they're as startled to see me as I am delighted to stumble across them.
The dogs--thirty, forty, one hundred feet in front of me--are standing tall and resolute, neck high in the rural green. Their faces are turned hopefully toward the open...open...wide open fields. They look back at me briefly, willing me to send them to their freedom with a "Go get 'em!" Go deep into that boundless open space. Go after the scents and storms and free critters. Cut loose. Run wildly. Run long. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe the free air.
With a sharp whistle I bring them scampering back toward me.
I let the dogs lead the walk, then. Back through brambles and marshy places, clover-laden patches and nose-high weeds. We find the beaten path and turn our steps toward home. Away from the wild. Away from open land. Toward security and warmth. Toward amenities and ease. Enchantment wanes on the return journey, of course; still every step whispers worship to the Maker of the fields and sky, to the god who makes vast prairies and hidden wild flower patches.
I'll take the same way tomorrow
But not every tomorrow
No path should wear its' weary permanence
Out there
No two feet should trample, too often,
That thin strand of freedom
I tug on well-worn walking shoes, grab the leashes from their spot by the back door, whistle for the dogs, and set out for the evening's hike.
The scent of fresh rain and soggy soil welcomes me as I press quickly through the yard and along the night-black asphalt of the back alley. City walks hold little charm; I know that a short jog will get me to the edge of town and into the outskirts of the farmers' field.
I'm always wary of trodding on his wheat crop. It feels sacrilegious to even think of trampling the product of something so innately Canadian. I steer the dogs away from growing stalks and we make our way around the crops' edge. The path there is worn and packed hard--testimony to other urban hopefuls straining for a taste of country air. The air: blissfully free of mosquito's (thank God!) and rich with smells of earth and sky. A perfectly cool breeze is nipping at the end parts of that thunder storm.
Lightening flashes to the east and south. Straight up and down, sky to earth blasts of light and electricity. We navigate around a patch of thicket and critter-filled brush and strike out across a patch of wild grass. I love this wooly corridor that edges city and farmland alike. I know that if I direct my steps rightly, I can wander in the wild stuff for a long way.
There is no worn path through this part of the field, and soon my five foot two inch frame is dwarfed by wild grasses and purple-topped thistles. I have a momentary twinge of jitters, wondering what exactly may be lurking in the deeps around my feet. Like a swimmer in a deep, dark lake, the chilling promise that "there might be something down there," sends goose bumps up and down my spine.
The recent rain has made the trudging soggy work; the flared legs of my blue jeans are soon sounding a satisfying "thwomp, thwomp" as I press forward through the green and growing things. Wild flowers spring up in surprising mounds and clumps and wispy tufts~~they're as startled to see me as I am delighted to stumble across them.
The dogs--thirty, forty, one hundred feet in front of me--are standing tall and resolute, neck high in the rural green. Their faces are turned hopefully toward the open...open...wide open fields. They look back at me briefly, willing me to send them to their freedom with a "Go get 'em!" Go deep into that boundless open space. Go after the scents and storms and free critters. Cut loose. Run wildly. Run long. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe the free air.
With a sharp whistle I bring them scampering back toward me.
I let the dogs lead the walk, then. Back through brambles and marshy places, clover-laden patches and nose-high weeds. We find the beaten path and turn our steps toward home. Away from the wild. Away from open land. Toward security and warmth. Toward amenities and ease. Enchantment wanes on the return journey, of course; still every step whispers worship to the Maker of the fields and sky, to the god who makes vast prairies and hidden wild flower patches.
I'll take the same way tomorrow
But not every tomorrow
No path should wear its' weary permanence
Out there
No two feet should trample, too often,
That thin strand of freedom
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