Writing Practice

I hike nearly a mile down Harbison Lane until the tar-and-chip road dwindles down to a narrow dirt path at an impassable dead end road that cuts into the forest. Only locals and conservation officers know what exists beyond this point. I make my way through the bushy entrance and venture into a verdant wilderness of lush foliage in shades of nut brown and green flourishing in full bloom. I saunter down the winding trail and dodge around these thick trunks of ancient trees that's occupied this natural environment for centuries, proceeding with care I tread over their massive roots to avoid tumbling headfirst into the mud-caked earth. Dead leaves crunch and twigs snap beneath my sneakers with each step I take. The rich scent of pine and wildflowers mingles through this fresh country air. All around me, I can hear the sounds of wildlife chirping and croaking as it reverbrates into the distance and back. I round the final curve of the trail, then head towards the light where a small opening overlooks a tranquil lake that's surrounded by a shoreline of nothing but tress. I get a breathtaking view of the sky ablaze with brilliant shades of orange, fiery red, pink and a twist of purple, stretching far and wide. A picture-perfect skyline that belongs on canvas as a masterpiece. The setting sun is just minutes away from descending below the horizon yet still glistening off the water, adding to the mesmerizing beauty that's left to offer. I fix my gaze out to the horizon until there's nothing left to see and the twilight takes over. As much as I'd love to stick around and immerse myself in this glorious nature, I know that every last bit of daylight is crumbling around me, which would leave me with no vision to see my way out of these game lands. That said, I must hit the trail and go. Another splendid day has run its course and nightfall will soon set in. What a beautiful day its been.