The Hunt

I had the opportunity to go hunting the other day. It is late fall and the evenings are crisp and cold. It’s the time of year when the deer are skittish and fear to come out of the woods and into the clearings.

My son-in-law took me to his family property. It is a large swath of land in the middle of a neighboring county. I learned the land was once a plantation site before and during the Civil War. The heirs of the slaves from the plantation still live in dotted plots of land around the area.

We arrived a couple of hours before dusk. The tree tops held full sun as the filtered light pooled on the floor of the mixed pine and oak forest. We detoured onto a church property that sat abut to the hunting property. Its century old building held onto the weight of time with ancient timbers and stone foundations.

We drove behind the church on an old path that was being taken over by thorny vines and low hanging pine branches. The thick layer of pine needles and leaves surrendered under our truck tires as we idled our way toward an ancient graveyard… the graveyard of the landowner’s workers. Its thick walls were stacked with large stones that were pulled from the country side and away from the fields. I could feel the time and toil it took to complete the wall that surrounded us… it was heavy with its own personal history.

The hand forged gate was pinned into square pillars that stood as high as my arms could reach… I slid a loose stone back into its intended place on the pillar’s top knowing it will be secure for another generation.  Inside, I rubbed my hands across the chiseled names of souls that lived and worked on this land in the eve of the 18^th century. I could only imagine their life's journey.

We made our way into our deer stand and sat in the silence… only hearing the movement of small birds as they foraged under the crisp fallen leaves. We sat quiet for an afternoon looking for movement in nature, but I found something I wasn’t looking for…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Peace tonight

All of my children were within my arms today… together my six.

I looked into each of their eyes as they smiled and talked and as they laughed.

I found parts of myself within each one… inside of a reply or gesture.

I felt their voices in my memory… in a dance with time.

I realized peace tonight… my soul will live on through them.

And I pray they have only the best of me.

                                                  Shannon R Killman

Through the Thinning Leaves

We began the final phase of our yearly game today… my yard and I. The leaves from the surrounding trees that keep me shaded throughout the spring and summer have started there trek to the ground. There is moisture in the air that pulls from high above in the spider web of clouds. They contrast against the light blue sky… and I watch. I watch for a hint of wind that will steal my breath in the cold morning.

I plugged in the leaf blower and untangled the cord I have used with it for years. I know it’s the right one because of the repair I had to make several years ago. I knotted it about a foot away from the end. In the loop sits a patch of electrical tape that holds together the tender green, white and black wires that are intertwined with nylon cording.

The cat wakes up from her nap in the sunshine when she hears the whine of the small electrical motor. It makes a quick pull to my left against my wrist as the torque of the motor fills the black tube with exhausted air… and the leaves blow in swirls.

The leaves are in every crevice of the yard… and in every fall color. The crepe myrtle leaves are pointed at both ends and blend brown with pale yellow on both ends of the driveway. The red bud tree is almost bare and has spread her yellow, heart shaped drapery in the yard. The striking brown from my neighbor’s pines have made their way into my yard along with an adventurous pine cone or two.

The river birch is shedding its serrated edged foliage in record time. The squirrels skip around the tree tops and cause a haphazard cascade that falls like the waves of the ocean. Her papery bark pulls at their path as they make their way down.

And then there is Mother Oak. She moves like a thunder cloud in the light breeze… twisting slightly to the left and to the right in a dancer’s motion. She releases just enough of her leaves to keep herself entertained. She knows tomorrow we will be together again. Her brown leaves hide the green ivy that crawl along her trunk. But, she holds on to the green and bronze in her mighty canopy.

We will dance the dance of fall and winter. The grass will be cut a final time and wait for its raking. The blower will push the grass in a swirled pattern and the cat will watch from the safety of the street. The children will pull on wooden handles attached to rake ends and long for the warmth of hot chocolate. And we look to the skies through the thinning leaves and barren branches toward a time of spring when we will begin again.

                                                                        Shannon R Killman

Her sign to Me

My centuries old oak tree flexed her muscles today. I have been watching her for weeks now… waiting for her sign. The large glossy acorns have been falling like hail for a month or so in anticipation of her next cycle.

Her leaves have been fighting against the cool evenings and the afternoon rains. The shiny green shadows that stand over my rooftop have softened into a mixture of olive greens and soft brown. She relaxes her intentions… the wind takes her leaves as she releases them at her will.

She knows I’m watching her. She smiles upon me as I inspect her… as I have through the years. She only teases with wisps of leaves, but we both know what is coming. The browns of late fall will be her sign to me.

I will toil for my friend and rake her leaves into piles. I will sweep around the drive and I will blow the leaves from the roof. But for now, we look upon each other in the misty dusk and ready ourselves for another day.

                                                                                            

                                            Shannon R Killman

                                                                                  

and She will Cry

And then time stood still…

We looked to like-minds

for understanding on this night.

The world shifted in its stance.

We echo the ways of other lands.

Perhaps we cannot recover in time.

But, we can only wait and try.

The years will pass slowly, divided.

And she will cry

with the failures of her people.

She will rust under the debt.

Her torch is dim tonight.

                       Shannon R Killman