Cottonwood fathers float down the sun's new light dust. Pulling on my boots the cabin's door dares to break morning silence. Unknown destinction propels my anticipation. The path darken by vegetation ceiling and wooden walls. Underbrush of the lonely trail does little to slow me down. By mid-afternoon that changed with a bellowing virgin meadow. A combination of vision, aroma and a melodic orchestra is my siren. My eyes close to day's perception, while intereye takes focus. Climbing honeysuckle swings from trees, goldenrod runs gracefully over brush and blueball hides on the ground. As the thunderous trumpeting frogs join the raspy coloration of crickets and birds. The wind blows seductevely up my arm, across my neck and whispers " wake up tinman the witch is watching."
