There is a place we would go each spring. Off in a provincial park 100 kilometres from the city.
Poplars, birch trees and spruce populate the area while emerald green moss covers deadfall and the forest floor itself.
Bedrock protrudes out of the ground appearing to be growing, searching for the warmth of the sun after a long winters cold.
The thaw has arrived.
The lake still thick with ice in some places, give way to water at the shoreline, where frigid water tempts the tongue of a new fawn for a quick drink.
The sounds of nature could never be described as quiet. Maybe serene, but the noises are everywhere. Squirrels, little chickadees, woodpeckers and the rustling of rotting leaves from the past fall.
And the wind.
It always sounds different blowing through the naked trees still yet to be clothed by it’s late spring wardrobe. And with just a touch of bitter that doesn’t last due to the pouring sunshine in the breaks in the wooded area.
God I long for this place, like an ache for a lover, for the soothing touch of peace and rest. For beauty to overwhelm my senses, deafening the weight of my world, for at least a little while.