Whitnall Park, Late Spring

It is hard not to be moved by lovely weather in the late spring.  I went for a jog in Whitnall Park and encountered no others on the entire 3+ mile loop.  The temperature was comfortable, but the air was humid in the denser parts of this small forest.  Fresh green leaves covered the ground and exploded from the tree branches around me.  And the humid air seemed a catalyst to appreciate this sense of growth.  In such moments, one can understand the ancients and why they celebrated the return of spring.  Even my creaky knees seemed fraught with impossible possibility, that they were infected with youth, that they were capable of speed again.  

In the first part of the loop, the trail winds across the side of a long slope or ridge.  For a tenth of a mile or so, a short distance, the forest thins out, devoid of the scrub and bushes that otherwise crowd the space between tree trunks.  In this short distance, in this small space, the ground cover is thick and perhaps 3-4 inches high and it is everywhere, blanketing the ground so the trees look magical, as if they are sprouting from a carpet.  Had they fuzzy tops and unusual colors, the scene would be Seussian.  I sense the ethereal and unreal.

Although I do not hear Horton, I find this particular spot entrancing.  It takes much effort to maintain my pace, to keep going, to avoid the temptation to wander off the path and find a spot where rays of sun break through the canopy to the ground, to find the spot and bask in it, in the sunlight, in the verdure, in the impossible possibility, in the sense that I belong here now.  I force myself to consider poison ivy.  This reduces the temptation, but only a little.  I continue on.

I cannot put my finger on what it is about this particular spot that seems so lovely to me.  Nearly the entire loop is picturesque.  I suspect it is the sense of openness and height that has something to do with it.  A cathedral with green leaves through which the light of heaven streams.  But this is not all that is entrancing.  The ground cover growing over downed branches and trees creates the sense of incessant vitality:  even in death the forest brims, life explodes from the mortal wounds of time and weather.  Even the smell is different in this spot.  How so, I cannot say for sure.  The vegetal odor of the forest is present, but less strong than in other places.  I think that I can smell the trees and breathe in their monumental time and strength.  I think of Fangorn Forest and Treebeard when I pass through this space and this flight into Tolkien has something to do with it, I am sure.  

Honestly though, I do not worry about what makes the spot lovely because it is lovely and that is enough.  And it is a lovely late spring day and I had a chance to get outside and run through the lovely spot.  It is hard not to be moved and for that I am grateful.