Thursday, November 7, the exact midpoint between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice.
I was drawn outside in spite of the damp and found the landscape full of secrets. Roaming stags and swirling leaves. The susurration of the wind in the trees. I walked until I was numb with cold, but it hardly mattered. Vast, shadowy birds swooped through the low clouds and vanished. Messengers from the other world, it seemed.
Photos and video are only thin copies of a place, never capturing the spirit itself, though I suppose it's one of the few ways we can take something from nature without stealing. All the same, I'm glad I have this, the memory of the grove on a chill November morning.
At the threshold of the darkest part of the year.
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