The light is changing with the season, and the season is changing with the light. Arriving at the creek late in the afternoon, I’m struck by how the sun streams through the trees and illuminates the creek in front of me, and floods a vine tree about 50 meters downstream.
The days grow noticeably shorter, but here in California’s drought-stricken Central Valley, we still have another month of summer. A succession of 100-degree days is due at the end of the week.
Dusk descends. Walking back, I pass the great oak that anchors the Lower Park, the best specimen of Valley Oak in the entire park. It sits motionless, the last light of day drained from its upper branches, and its lower magnificent limbs curving down and touching the high brown grass.
There is something indescribably graceful about that oak’s ancient presence. It has seen generations of people come and go, and was here when local Indians harvested acorns as their winter staple.
Strange how there is no fear when the actuality of death is present, as both the cycle of life and death, and the ground beyond all cycles.
Strange how nothing matters when one is in direct contact with the actuality of death. … continue reading
Via:: Costa Rican Times