January 1, 2010

In the winter the woods opens up. The trails

that in the summer forced us into single file rows

like properly lined up school children

have spread with the leaf drop

and now the two of us can walk side-by-side.

What was hidden in the summer lies

revealed to us in the slanting afternoon light.

We are walking along the Old Forest Trail, determined

to resist the impulse to wander down any side trails

but staying disciplined just this once to see

what there is to see in this time of clearing.

And what there is to see are vines,

almost the only green in the woods today.

Something stubborn is astir in the vines, something

defiant of winter’s demands holds their leaves

on the stems –

leaves in the shapes of spears, arrowheads, playing card spades.

Some of the vines sprawl along the ground

but most clamber up tree trunks.

Others, leafless, spiral like sea snakes

around tree trunks,

gouging deep grooves into the bark.

English Ivy is the easiest

for a non-botanist like me to identify,

and there are also shaggy poison ivy ropes

and swagging grapevines.

One thick grapevine sags over the trail, low enough,

too tempting,

and I jump – three times on legs unused to jumping –

until I can grab it and dangle in the air,

the gentle sway soothing,

and it is only the digging of bark

into the skin of my palms

that finally makes me release

my grip and return to earth.

Also green are the stems of briars.

Green, thumbthick briars.

Some stand rigid and alert.

Others eccentrically curl themselves

in weird ribbons, following their own baffling

and willful logic.

Some jut from the earth, solitary.

Others, thinner, grow in clumps,

inextricably jumbled together.

And some of the clumps grow

as high as six feet tall,

until gravity bends them;

dead leaves have come to rest

on the crown of their arches.

Through the tan bark of the leafless trees

we can see the land’s contours,

the rises and ridges, dips and bowls,

that summer leaves conceal.

And especially the bare tops of the trees

are revealed this time of year.

The tornado that hit the forest years ago

not only scattered trees along the ground

but gashed empty holes in the air.

On our way out of the woods, we hear

a hammering sound. It doesn’t take long

to find the birds or identify them: pileated woodpeckers.

Three of them near the top of a tree

about fifty yards from the trail.

We stand and watch them a long time,

watch them deliberately draw their red-tufted heads

back, then almost thoughtfully lunge forward

to pound the bark, then draw back again.

After we have been there a few minutes

one flies to a nearby tree, flinging

its maniacal laughing kuk-kuk-kuk as it flies,

its underside splotched white

like disintegrating clouds.

Soon another flies away.

We watch the one left for a while longer.

Until the late afternoon chill

sinks into our fingers and faces,

and we walk away,

and even when we are at the edge of the woods,

near where the trail meets the road,

we can still hear their hammering

and their wild voices.

Words by Stephen Black

Photos by Jenn Allmon