ronet
country roads
There is a space between where the light ends and the tree begins, and in that space is the coarse chorus of crow-song. It echos off the road, follows the road, filling the half-wild wood with sound. And in the sudden quiet after, the air still seems to thrill and vibrate.
In the space that is neither tree nor light is the loamy smell of dew-wet, unmown grass and the reverberating memory of decades of fallen leaves. Before there was a road there was a path, and before the path, a trail. Before the trail, roe deer picked their delicate way through thorn and thistle, alert to danger, listening for the warning cry coughed out by crows.
We follow the road on foot and on bicycle, we follow it in cars, and beneath the sound of our footsteps and the hum of our wheels we can still hear the crow-song caught in the space between the tree and the light, and it’s the sound of careful deer riffling through dead fallen leaves.
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