Norbert Kovacs

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The Hill

The man takes the earthen path up the great hill in the woods. He wonders what view will greet him when he reaches the top. He fills with anticipation. The trees seem to brace with tension in their shaded limbs. The pine stretches its boughs as if to receive the wind. The leaves on the maple blaze in the sun, their light fresh and exciting. The man climbs as birds in the farther woods beckon with their calls. The green faces of the trees offer encouragement, and the stones and roots in the path no longer impede him. Then he reaches the last stretch before the hillcrest. He pictures, over the hilltop, a long road winding through the trees. He knows just as well, though, that there might be an open countryside of hills rolling into the distance, the clearest sky overhead. He stands, feeling either idea might be true with an electric sense of possibility. 

** 

Departure

The farmer has waited for him and a few others in a horse-drawn cart at the meadow by the wood side. The hikers get into the back of the cart, the young man taking a seat near its tail end. He looks out at the maples that make the edge of the woods a short distance from the meadow grass. A stream of thoughts come to him of his long walk that day. There had been a doe that tread amid the sapling tees and ate from their new, green leaves. The river rushed over the rocks midstream and spilled away, smooth and white. He had heard the wood thrush sing in the treetops and the warbler in the dark heart of the pines. It all makes him marvel, and warm feelings stir within him. The world seems wonderful.

Behind him, the farmer lashes the horse to go. The cart pulls from the wood side and the leafy trees begin slipping away. The heads of the maples shrink and lower; the sky shows dim with dusk.  Watching the forest go, the young man knows the birds, calling to one another, will grow quiet as the dark arrives. Night will dim the rushing river. The deer will amble through the clearing towards its place of rest. The thought that it all will happen without him quiets the man. The trees crinkle down further, their heads seeming to darken and bunch as the cart puts distance on them. The forest becomes a dark wall, sealing off that day's memories.

**

Taking the Trail

He walks with face bent, looking down at the trail to avoid tripping on its stones and roots. He steps over a gnarled root, next a dark mound of feldspar. More stone and roots appear as he plods on. Then he turns toward the long, stone wall, where he catches the scent of sweet fern. A great colony of it spreads, fronds raised high, going back into the forest. The scent from it is like honey and comes in a great wave. He stops to breathe it and look on the ferns in their green, open sweep. He had hoped to have breaks like these during his walk and hopes for others as he resumes the trail.

Once again, stones strew the way ahead, and he finds he is watching his every step. He walks, slowing. Then, not far up the path, a butterfly alights on a stone. His wings open and close as he suns himself while the young man looks on, wide-eyed. He waits, keeping very still, until he sees the butterfly lift and depart, jagging through the air.

After half a mile, the man reaches a stretch of leafy, short trees cast in shade. Among the trees, he spots a doe. She steps gracefully raising and bending her slender legs. Near a tree, she stops to listen to the surrounding woods. She rolls her long ears, then goes to eat from the leaves on the low-hanging boughs of the trees. He watches quietly without moving. He forgets the dullness of keeping the trail in the simple act of observing the here and now.

**

Riverside

Passing through the shady trees lining the path, the man arrives at the river rapids. He watches the water flowing white over the stones in its midst. The water roars as it rolls over the stones. The white seems to hold on the stone like ice. The crashing roar fills his ears, and his mind numbs. He considers that the water flowing through the rapids may last as long as the stones over which they roll. The roar of its crash will sound as long as the current runs. As it does, he knows the trees and rocks on the riverbank will stand quietly before the river, witnessing its ceaseless flow. He only can wish to do the same with as much self-surrender.

**

Listening for Birds

The man hears the chickadee's sad hee-who from the woodland trees. He considers its tune for a moment before the monologue in his head resumes. It is the same litany of ideas he has heard a thousand times: idle grievance, unlikely hopes, dull imaginings. He walks on, dumbly, but does not go far before he hears the chickadee again. The bird's notes are more interesting now he recognizes them. He decides to stop where he is and listen. He shuts down the monologue in his head, even though he feels barren without the sound of his rambling thoughts. He listens. He catches new parts of the chickadee’s song; each dulcet fragment takes more than one hearing for him to catch. But once he does, he feels that he gets the flow of the beautiful line. He listens to decide if he has it right. The chickadee holds quiet, and he instead hears other birds, a smart tu-whit, the robin's eager cheerup-cheerupcheerupcheerup, an energetic who-a-woo. He listens to the new birds’ songs, hoping for their beauty. Holding perfectly still, he catches them. The robin's song comes from the trees overhead. The wood thrush sounds from afar. The chickadee calls from the shade. The entire forest pulses with song. Beside himself, the man considers that, if he’d paid attention only to the world in his head, he would scarcely have imagined the birds’ music could be real.

**
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Norbert Kovacs lives and writes in Hartford, Connecticut. He has published fiction recently in Blink-Ink, Worthing Flash, and The Ekphrastic Review. His website: http://www.norbertkovacs.net.