The Light I Love

Days are cold, and I'm not adverse to hiking later in the morning. Today, it was 3 in the afternoon before I quit the keyboard, laced up the trail shoes, and led Buddy up the ridge. It's good to look at things from a different angle, even if it's simply the angle of day light. Three in the afternoon doesn't sound so late, but on the shortest day of the year, it's evening. This is the light I love. All the shadows have moved around to the other side of things; what usually goes unnoticed in the background now takes center stage. Dry leaves that disappear among dusty detritus now pop off the trail's moist dark soil. Silvery lichen lights up the naked oaks in neon green. Mushrooms that demure in their dark dens kick up a chorus line of bleached ivory stems. The florest floor, filled with fallen leaves, shimmers like wet copper. What scarce light makes it through the canopy scatters like diamonds across the whole dank muddy mess. It's brisk. I need gloves for the first time this season. I think of the trees, having shed all those leaves. Trillions upon trillions composting under my feet. One single leaf, sure, it's light. But imagine the weight of them all at once. Imagine the relief of winter. The rest. This is the light I love.