I went home to my walk last evening, the most beautiful day we have had since last Fall, nearly 70, blue skies, breezy, blessings of the gods flowing, pouring, enveloping all creatures down on Earth. I started my walk down the usual path. Then I just decided that today was the day that I was going to explore the stone walls that traverse the middle of wooded acres in which the town path makes its circle. (And, DARN, I did not bring my camera! I would go back today to capture the mini-discoveries, but it's Saturday - that means it's overcast and dark - see buds against the gray skies below.)
The particular stone wall that runs down the middle of this wood is the biggest I have seen around here. I've mentioned it here before, but up close it is even more impressive. You could drive a small car down it, it's that wide. Then, to stand next to that wall, looking along its length as it disappears in the distance, and to stand amidst the thick stands of trees, big trees every few feet as far as you can see so you are in the dark even on the sunniest of days, and then imagine it all cleared. I saw it as a movie scene, when the set fades from one vision to another in memory. The darkness in which I was standing turned to the bright sunlight I would feel if there were no trees. It almost made me dizzy, like when the Island flashes to another time in recent Lost episodes. It felt like ghosts from the era when the walls were built were all around me: oxen teathered to plows, puffing with effort, hoofs alternately thudding softly in dirt and clanging against stones; laborers, sweating in the sun, lugging all those stones erupting from the tilled earth to heave onto that gigantic wall.
I've walked along the path in those woods a hundred or more times. I saw all this when I left the path, to walk a different way.