Evening in the Smokies
The sun's rays have been beating down on my brow with droplets of sweat trickling down my cheeks. The evening sky now offers some relief as Hades' star retreats back into darkness. Sitting around the fire pit, watching the red ambers flare with the occasional breeze, the flames lick at the cinders as they glide into nothingness.
The cicadas are singing their autumn song, early. I believe fall will call on us early. Or it might be wishful thinking. Dead tinder lies around me scattered amongst the grounds. Even the bull frogs have retreated to the river refusing to serenade for the ladies on their logs. The heat drenches the soul, sucking the life from those who do not seek refuge in the river.
I see to the right of me a trail of ants still foraging into the night. A highway of industry, busied carrying supplies to a distant land, which is equivalent to the distance of two feet. The fire lights their way as they carry leaf fragments and a dissected caterpillar back to their fortress. Even they are preparing for winter.
The river is full of life, with the two-legged kind. Children gleefully ride their tubes in the icy water while others wade on the banks collecting pebbles for their pockets.
The masked-bandit observes the festivities from a nearby boulder. I can feel his thoughts. He wants to catch his dinner and has no hopes of doing so with the entire clamor of the woods. He waddles to a nearby trash bag and finishes a half-eaten cheeseburger from McDonalds.
Man's mark on the world is sometimes not the best we have to offer Mother Earth. Debris and refuse reveals mans' evidence of habituation, if only temporary.
The wonders of the Smokies are so many, that I could spend a life time watching God's gifts of life; I shall never see all that he has to offer me.