We trod a weary path, through silent woods,
Tangled and dark, unbroken by a sound
Of cheerful life. The melancholy shriek
Of hollow winds careering o’er the snow,
Or tossing into waves the green pine tops,
Making the ancient forest groan and sigh
Beneath their mocking voice, awoke alone
The solitary echoes of the place.
I’ve been chopping wood in preparation for winter and I can only imagine what it must have been like for my ancestors on their homesteads without running water, electricity or chainsaws. We live in a time of everyday miracles, but the tradeoff is that most of the time in our busy busy lives, we take the landscape for granted, ignoring its power and grandeur.