There is no such thing as green in the countryside, but there are an infinity of hues called ‘green.’ To the artistic eye, to the country soul, nature makes her art in more colours than heart and head can hold. Neither are their fields of cows, though that is what they’re called. There are herds of four legged friends, each of them unique. Neither words nor photographs can capture what is here. Between hedgerows that grow a metre every spring, amid the fields that show each day's climate happenings, is a life only the soul can touch and echo its findings to the head in hope of bringing the peace of clarity.
The countryside coaxes my inner energy to flow in ways that weave my soul into the land.
In this expanse of green there are more hues than anyone has ever named, yet here they are for any eye to see. The land rolls as it always has, as if it feels that time and space are one thing, that it rolls through the ages as much as to the horizon. Over it is laid a path, one that branches through the open landscape, and as I begin to walk there is a frisson of joy for all the choices to come, each one of them laden with discoveries.
The countryside lay before him like a divine fingerprint, curving and changing, no two parts the same. In all the world this view was unique, such is the way of the organic world. The dip and sway of the land, the patterns and species of flora, the every changing sky and wind. Every day was a new snapshot in time, for even this one place, this view from one fine oak tree on a hill, could never be exactly the same two days in a row. Little by little the seasons would bring changes. River's mind wandered back to the far away city, his home, it had its rhythms too: the start and ending of school years, the vacations of summer and the winter festivals. Yet the countryside had a way of reminding him that he wasn't apart from nature, but a part of nature. Often on these travels he'd reach out to touch the bark of the trees as he passed or feel the softness of new leaves...
The countryside had been put to sleep under a blanket of white. The boughs glistened with frost; the air hung silent and cold. The only way in and out of the village was with a tow from the tractor; for five pounds Mr Green would attache a rope to your car and take you as far as the brow of scarface hill. The population of the village had doubled, the new half being made of snow and ice. It was odd to see the fields so quiet, the cows and pigs hiding in the warm barns and pens instead of roaming. Every Sunday afternoon of the big "snow in," right after church, every kid in the village got a ride to the top of Scarface in Mr Green's hay trailer so they could toboggan down, no cars allowed, just kids...
The countryside beckoned. Today was a day of sunshine and rambling for Eddie, with way too many apples packing out his bag. The sunshine was brilliant but not yet with the heat of late spring. The fields were no longer swathes of rutted mud, each one was softly verdant, the new stems ruffled by the light breeze. The hills rolled like a casually laid eiderdown quilt, rising and falling in soft waves. Eddie walked up the muddy path, his senses soaking in the changes since he had last walked this way in winter. The air had more warmth and more fragrance. The music to meet his ears was an auditory painting from the winged artists as they called, sung and raised their new families in the treetops.
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