Nature awakens hunter's senses
I am standing by the water, and it is not the sound I hear.
Though the water dances over these rocks, her poem is not audible. Though the water stretches into the frozen mud of her limits, her adjectives are not heard. Though the water spins and twirls and rolls — o, how she rolls, twists, absorbs, passes, moves, and surrounds — it is not the sound that I hear.
Instead, she is warm and grey. For the moment that I stand here, I see her colors and that she is silver and grey and warm, and she is reflective of all that is around her, but mostly she is warm and grey. I hear this water, sure. Yet I see her colors, too.
I am in a field that has been littered with the graffiti of frost, and it is not the bleached, angelic white that I see. Though this frost halts and holds, I do not see her pure blanket of grip and mortality.
All around me is ceased and suppressed. The sun is needed here. The wind did not do its job. The frost is forever, and only those places beneath the herd of pine trees, where warmth is reserved and field mice stir and game hides in quiet shelter, is preserved.
For the moment that I stand here, I hear the voice of frost and how she became this place. Her voice, surprisingly, is soft. She is clear and transparent and her manner of speaking upon this place is neither slurred nor slanged.
I see the frost, sure. Yet I hear her colors, too.
I am standing amongst the briars and the wildly grown broomstraw, and upon my shoulders and against my neck and like an embrace that is never forgotten, the cedar takes hold of me. And yet, it is not the touch that I feel. For I know the branches from this tree are antagonistic against my bare skin. I have felt the reminder of rogue cedar remnants that fall into the gap between my neck and any loose garment, and they remind me of presence.
Still, it is not the touch I feel. It is instead the entrancing pheromones that elicit warmth and taste, and they gently navigate my senses and inspire deep breath. The cedar smells of cinnamon and spice and she is neither bitter nor sweet, and I crush her filaments in my gloved hand and I inhale and taste and I do not mind her prickly ways.
I feel the tease and twists of her branches, and I know her color and strength. Yet it is her breath and her flavor which I smell.
In this place outdoors, where the sound of dancing water, the vision of a frozen field and the touch of warm cedar is what is heard, seen and felt, another sense becomes.
Here the water has a color. Here her voice is soft. Here one inhales.
Enjoy your time outdoors.
You may email Jason Hawkins at firstname.lastname@example.org.