The Woods

     by Carolyn Wolfe

There is a picture on my living room wall of a woods in late Fall, or early Winter.  In this picture, the trees stand like guardians, seeming both transparent and solid as the mist rises and wreaths around their leafless branches.

Arms in a wicked parody of dancers, their twiggy fingers pointing at the sky as if at some distant doom coming from the stars. And here is where I have to tell you of my fear of the woods, of forests, of trees that creak, that lean toward you as you walk by, as if longing to get a hold of your hair, your skirt, your soul.

I looked at this picture tonight as I watched in horror as the stars spiraled down, down, down into the woods behind our house. It is a meteor shower heralded in the news as something spectacular, something that had to be seen, but no one realized that the meteors were going to come in such a fashion that the earth itself would be consumed.

So, here I am staring out at the woods as fire falls from the sky. No place to run, no place to hide and as I glance at the picture of the woods on my wall, I suddenly see a light in the mist becoming brighter and brighter and brighter. Who knew this picture was prophecy.

Bio: Carolyn Wolfe is a Free-lance writer, poet and author of twelve books that include five illustrated children's books, three original poetry collections, two novelettes, as well as two original collections of short stories. Writing is her passion and that includes both works of fiction and also non-fiction essays, blogs and articles. She is currently living in the Shenandoah Valley with her many animal  companions.  Amazon.com: Carolyn Wolfe: books, biography, latest update

A Pastoral Song

      by Ken Kapp

The apple trees were old enough to be crabby, struggling to hold their own with the sumac, birch, and maples rooted tenaciously on the outside of the ditches that bordered the country road. Weeds and grasses fought their own battles on the margins against dandelions allied with clusters of yellow vetches. Wild raspberry brambles shook their old canes often bordered by poison ivy which appeared to be in their employ. Wild strawberries smiled, finding a spot in the sun at the edges, sending tendrils seeking new footholds. The apples trees were leftovers from orchards planted by the first settlers in fields that were later plowed over for pastures or crops.

Their early blossoms were full and fragrant; a few shriveled fruits hung on gnarled branches near the trunk like weathered medals attesting to battles fought. The blossoms, Privates in Nature’s Army, their guns at the ready, were praying for victory before the winter snows.

The old man waved his arms as if conducting the vegetal bouquets, queuing the more subtle fragrance from scattered choke cherry trees with their hanging clusters of tiny white stars, waving in the fecund promise of the recently plowed pastures, along with the pungent smells of clustered cows whose curious eyes followed the old man they mistook for a moving scarecrow. He smiled and gloried at the heavenly harmonies perceived here on earth.

Walking along, he remembered to relax his shoulders and soften his knees. Slow and steady, I’m moving and that’s the good news! There was still a scattering of old barns and sheds holding their own. He laughed and sang, “We all fall down,” bringing his hands down with the final chord. It’s too far away and I didn’t count the boards and shingles when I walked here last year.

A hundred yards farther on he took up his baton as he came to a double-wide where, a man on a mower was cutting patterns in the grass. The old man swept his baton across the road, inviting the sharp smells of the cut grass to harmonize with the blossoms. Two boys raced around the yard on a small motor bike. The younger, sitting behind his brother, smiled, rolling his wrist behind the gas grip, hinting for his brother to go even faster.

The old man walked on, trying to remember if this was Plakowitz Way, or Jakka Road. He thought the name on the street sign was also on one of the headstones in the small cemetery back at the junction with County BB. There were fewer than two-dozen old stones grouped in a grassed lot smaller than his backyard in Milwaukee. He guessed that this far up in the Great White North of Wisconsin, most of the newer lots for homes were cut from corners and edges of the old fields; just an acre or two, ample room for a double-wide trailer and outbuildings. He sneezed. Allergies. Wonder if those sheds just trick people to move in so there’s someone to oil the hinges and close the proverbial barn doors at night?

Up ahead was a small A-frame, maybe twenty years old. There were two motorcycles and a muscle car with a couple of dents parked under the outside garage on the south side. He didn’t think they were there last year and speculated, “Newcomers? Maybe grew up around here. Few jobs in this area so maybe they came up for the Memorial Day weekend like me.”

The old man passed a couple of apple trees and took a deep breath, recalling the double wide. His hands picked up the baton. Last year, the mower man had just parked in front of his trailer when I went by, unloading the groceries on the porch and then opening the back door of the car to unfasten the youngest boy from his car seat.

He reached the bottom of the hill where the road turned right, exchanging its macadam for gravel. A rusted sign declared Dead End. Nice day, may as well walk on to the next bend. On the left, partially concealed by overgrown trees and shrubs, was a farmhouse. A couple of men were inspecting an old car as if debating whether they should take it out to the back forty and shoot it. When they looked up, he waved. They waved back and went about their buzzing. He continued ahead. On the right, the land climbed sharply, the undergrowth denser, old trees knocked over forming fences for forty – fifty feet before providing an opening in the brush. Trilliums danced on the fallen leaves. And on this side of the road, fiddlehead ferns found community on both sides of the ditch. He guessed the steeply sloping north side of the hill and drainage was more hospitable.

He turned around shy of the next turn in the road and began walking back to his son’s place. The men from the farm had come around and were now examining another car. He needed to catch his breath and stopped. Waving at the woods behind him, he said, “Nice out here. Nothing like New York City where I grew up.”

They laughed. “Hardly.”

He continued, reaching the paved road and pacing himself as the road rose. This will do for my Everest. He kept to the left of the road and was walking past the A-frame when he heard cars coming. He stepped off onto the gravel and waved as two cars went by. I guess they’re not going to put the first car down. Bet the second’s following just in case.

A fresh breeze came up and reminded him that all the fragrances needed a coda, a recapitulation of the themes already stated and developed. The old man chuckled at his foolishness as he reached inside his shirt for his imaginary baton. He waved through the tempo, paused and then began the finale as he approached the north end of the lot with the double wide.

The mower was sitting in front of one of the sheds. He could see the man in back fussing around a barbeque. The boys were still on the motorbike racing around the yard. The littlest waved, mistaking the beating baton for a greeting. The old man decided his orchestra was skillful enough to continue without him and swept both hands out in front of him, acknowledging the boy’s greeting.

He came to the south end of the lot, remembering that last year when he walked this way, fifteen minutes later, it had started to rain. He tried to walk faster. Just as he was passing the trailer, the door opened, and the man came out with a baby in one hand and a nursing bottle in the other. 

He must have been watching the road and called out, asking if I would like a ride home. I thanked him for his kindness, said it wasn’t necessary, I was already wet, and it was warm – the Fourth of July weekend – and my son’s house was just the other side of the county highway.

The old man slowed his pace and resumed conducting, his hands reaching above his head, “This for you, Lord, the smells and sounds of kindness that last forever.”

Bio: Ken Kapp lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. Please visit him at: www.kmkbooks.com