Entering the West Woodlands across the road from the grassy picnic
area just past a bench sleeping in the afternoon sun, two paths: a cinder
one ropes around the woods and a dirt path snakes through trees and
underbrush into a small valley, where a no name brook eases its way out
of the city.
Under nature’s quilt of foliage, chipmunks, robins, a lone deer, who
trots off upon approach. An abandoned hunter’s lean-to sits just above
in a sycamore whose skin is peeling. Just across the brook in a clearing
a rope swing hangs in the air like an unfinished spider web swaying in
wind. A hawk rides currents; an old fireplace encased in stone with man’s
quilt of empty beer cans, cigarette butts and graffiti scared trunks.
At the top of a ridge, he sits in a canvass chair, large black bible on his lap
flips pages in his loneliness, offers tracts to people passing by. Sits here for
hours each day under trees canopies, reads his bible and returns to his row
home when the sun descends the sky. He doesn’t explore the woodlands
this old man has found his spot.