The sharp cry of a sandhill crane punctuated the evening air. After a quiet interlude, an intermission in the ridge song, a bird whose voice I did not recognize, sang a sweet lingering note.
We took the steep slope to the moss trail along the cedar swamp. The light was filtered and dreamy amid the ferns.
With quiet steps, we slowed our pace. As we left the woods, we saw the moon against the still blue sky, caught in the branches of the maple tree where crows keep watch over the fields.
Where ever you are, whatever the weather, I wish you peace.