LAKELAND – October 2025
October 2025
Look, just there beyond the ridge, above the tall wisps of bushy bluestem swaying silvery white. The pine flatwoods stretch in quiet procession. The cypress domes, once mossy green and water‑laced, now lie dry and hushed. Their withered roots are exposed, praying for rain. Sun breaks through the thinning canopy and spills golden light across the trails—some known, some waiting—dappling the ground in shifting mosaics of shadow and shimmer. A deer flicks its tail and vanishes into hush. The air is warm, fragrant with pine and memory, and every step feels like a question: What story waits just beyond the bend.
It feels like going back in time. The grass still holds its green, and the sky—seen in scattered fragments through the tall, thin pines—shines a blue so deep it feels like a secret. The needles hang long and soft, and beneath them, you feel small. Not diminished, but humbled. A wind carries a distant song, laced with melody and memory. In an instant, it sweeps over you, then vanishes—like a whisper from the past.
A shallow lake nearby wears a thick quilt of lily pads, hiding nearly every trace of water beneath their broad green faces. The path winds gently through the woods, each turn more lovely than the last—curving through light and shadow, memory and moss. A soft rain has passed, leaving the pines glistening and the trail darkened with quiet. In the stillness, there is wisdom. The trees hold ancient truths in bark and breeze, and you walk among them not as a witness, but as a listener.
It is the kind of day when the light lingers a little longer, as if reluctant to leave. Movements slow—not from weariness, but reverence. Pine needles cushion the path, and the scent of damp earth rises like the land’s gentle exhale.
The trail continues, winding through the tall pines with quiet grace. Each turn reveals something new—a patch of sunlit grass, a fallen branch, a flicker of movement in the underbrush. The path is never straight, never hurried. It curves and twists as if the land itself is guiding you forward. The ground cradles the quiet left behind by the passing rain, its softness lingering in glittering traces. Pine needles gleam like threads of glass.
The air holds a stillness, the silence gathering like a breath held in twilight. You pause often—not to rest, but to listen. The trees stand steady and kind, their presence ancient. You walk among them not seeking answers, but simply to be near their quiet knowing.
As the light softens and the day leans toward evening, you find yourself standing still beneath the pines, listening. The wind has quieted. The path behind glows with memory. The trees—tall, patient, knowing—seem to hold you in their gaze. You don’t need to understand everything they’ve seen. It is enough to be here, wrapped in solitude like a shawl, knowing that something sacred gathers in this place, like the stillness before the stars begin to speak. You turn toward home slowly, carrying the shimmering silence with you.
DRR