Leaves crunch beneath my feet as I stroll through my backyard. As I do so, the wind pushes my hair around like a tumbleweed. The thick woods looking back at me fill me with excitement. I pick up my pace. My steps quickly turn into leaps as I bound toward the bridge that connects my yard to the woods. Once I make it onto the bridge I can see the fish swimming happily in the creek below. A smile creeps onto my face because I know that every day the woods hold a new story, with the weather setting the mood.
On spring mornings, the woods can be seen in a dense fog. The fog covers the woods like a thick blanket. When I reach my hand out, it disappears before my eyes. The trees become more engulfed in the the heavy mist the deeper into the woods I look. The steady motion of the creek echos in my ears as I stand on top of the old wooden bridge. I feel safe; however, I know the bridge is sinking down slowly as it deteriorates beneath my feet. The bridge lightly shakes with every ripple that taps its legs. Leaning against the loose railing, I catch a glimpse of graceful deer scampering over the hill. Twigs snap under their quick feet. The overgrown blades of grass have turned toward the ground, heavy with dew. I listen to the soft chirps from crickets dwelling underneath them. Above my head, the morning birds sing sweet songs that ring throughout the woods.
Foggy mornings leave a calm feeling over the woods; unfortunately, spring doesn’t always mean fog. A loud boom shakes the trees. Lightning brightens up the grim sky, dancing over the tree tops. Bright green leaves reach for the passing wind. The creek roars, licking the underside of the bridge. Small spouts of water get trapped between the jagged boards and shoot up, splashing my rainboots. A large bang. I grip the wobbly railing and watch as branches and twigs build up against the edge of the bridge. A loud crackle comes from the tree to my right. A flash brightens up the woods as the tree begins to fall. The ground quakes and I can smell burnt bark. A cloud of debris coats the nature around me. Smog blocks my view from all angles. There is no longer the song of birds, just the rumble of the wilderness.
During the winter, the rain fades into the background, and snow moves to the foreground. The bone-chilling wind presses against my skin; my purple knuckles begin to swell the longer I stand in the coldness. I listen intently, all there is is silence. The birds flutter away for the winter, leaving nothing but vacant tree branches. Colorful leaves are now replaced with cotton ball fluff, and layers of untouched snow on the ground like whipped frosting. Small deer tracks create patterns across the top of slick ice, sprinkled with snow. The faint sound of wind whistles through the pine trees. I push snow through the cracks of the bridge with the toe of my boot and breathe in the brisk air.
Hot days during the summer are not as peaceful as freshly laid snow. Steam radiates off the dry creek bed after a refreshing rain. The steady moving creek is dried up to small motionless puddles. The birds bathe in the puddles and squawk in anger at the lack of fish. I look up to the leaves hang heavily off the dehydrated branches. With beads of sweat dripping off the tip of my nose, the thought of the deer in the yard plays through my mind. Behind me about 20 feet, they munch in despair on the shriveled, yellow grass. The heat is overwhelming, so the deer hide under the small section of shade covering the yard. One of the deer stands on its shaking hind legs and reaches up to bite off the drooping leaves. Another one licks at the moist sand, where the stream used to flow. They move slowly into the woods in a march of despair.
When I walk into the woods and pause on the bridge, I look at the world around me. A world that changes with the wind, rain, sun, fog and sometimes brilliant white snow. It’s the weather, but it’s much more. It bleeds into my emotions as everything transforms, from the deepest roots of the trees, to the highest flying birds. Changes that can mean life or death, struggle or pleasure. A world that never fails to draw me in.
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