Burlington feels like a dream I’ve woken up from more tired than when I went to bed. I feel my groove out here in the forest. I can feel and be quiet out here in a way that’s new to me. In Burlington and in all the other cities I’ve ever lived in I’ve felt, and still feel, obliged to talk. I find myself most often in situations where I think I ought to talk. Like my talking might improve something about the situation.

In the forest my talking improves nothing at all. And it’s obvious that it doesn’t.

The extent to which my voice does not improve the forest inspires me to silence.

More and more often I’ll do my morning and afternoon circumambulations without a word, going so far as to not even call after my dogs, they know the route well enough not to be bothered.

Those walks always feel great. They are second only to walks with Abby. We’re very rarely silent when we walk together. 

We talk about our days, our dreams. We discuss the land, our plans. We appreciate things mostly: a new piece of quartz, the kindness of the dogs, a good bit of moss, a change to the trail. 

There’s not a lot of bad news in the woods. 
There’s not a lot of bad news in Plainfield. 

Part of that is that we’re lucky,
but part of it isn’t that at all.