Thanks to Sally Miller Gearhart, who gave us the Wanderground.
The lights in the trees are increasing, more visible with the impending night, more numerous as we drift away from the bonfires. The singing drops to a melodic chant; I hear a lullaby guitar from across the river. Birdsong decreases; I haven’t heard the crow people since the first pink appeared in the clouds.
A tail thumps against my leg; I bend to hold Lucky’s warm body in a hug, and he favors me with one of his gentle, lightening-fast kisses. I bury my nose in his soft, thick doggie-smell coat and glory in a hug so long missed that I may never forget how slowly time moved between his leaving and my coming here.
As his white ruff makes my nose tickle, I hear the first cry from the wolves. Their howling always sounds sad to me, even though there are no traps here, no guns. Multi-layered, far-reaching, the wolfsong always starts with melodies deep and sonorous and far away.
The coyotes’ refrains are higher pitched, yips and yelps and soprano calls. Next to the wild songs, the bays of the dogs, the hounds, the collies, the cocker spaniels, are cacophony, not yet melody. This does not curb their enthusiasm.
I sense, but do not pay attention to the quiet of the woods around me. This nightly chorus makes us all stop and remember the wild ones for a moment. Even here, this is the least we can give them.
As the last howl dies away, I resume my walk through the trees. Above me, I hear whispers, laughter, a lullaby as the young women in their swaggerlairs ease into the joy of night time couplings and sleep dreams. There are no nightmares here.
The first cricket cheeps off to my left. Across the water, I spot Janes’s sail house. I love our creativity, our variety, our commitment to home and place.
Many of us build our homes in the branches. After so long chained to the ground, watching the saws and the bulldozers disregard the gentle and sturdy spirits that are those great survivors, the trees, we want to be close to them. Their song, this night, as the summer wind blows a few cirrus clouds across the moon, soothes me toward sleep.
I can’t wait to climb up the rope, tuck into my sweet-smelling ova and dream my favorite dreams of women and dogs and trees, all living in harmony.
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