It is night and cold, not chillingly cold, but cold enough to make me wrap my arms and try to provide myself with warmth. In this, my shadowed covered home; I feel none of the primal fear historically known to be associated with night. Ancestors built homes for this exact purpose that I now disregard, for I am feeling solace in the exact setting from which they sought shelter: the empty dark.

I have gone for stroll on a wooden trail that till now I have only known by daylight. As my feet propel my body, my already tired mind shoots images and ideas for it’s own deciphering. One thought finds its origin in a tree I pass. Ancient and fully-grown, I feel my gazing of this tree to be the same as looking upon relics of worlds forgotten. What history has this life seen? What stories can it recall within its roots? What memories were made under its shade? Flashes of peoples and children flood my sight, their clothing and demeanor I only know from books and pictures. Who of their time may have stood and pondered these same thoughts I feel now looking at this tree?

My town is an old town. Its history is rich and colorful. Long before its title was changed the area was known by the name of its inhabitants; Rippowam. More richly from this knowledge, I can imagine this area I’m now passing through being surrounded by a very different environment than which I reside. This wooded sanctuary I walk through preserves that time, a time where the concepts of nature would be construed in way foreign to our modern sensibilities. My walk continues.

This autumn night only increases the mystique to the setting in which I find myself. Once beyond the wooded trail, ascending a hill, the moonlight was no longer blocked: it shone as a beacon. Looking downslope, there appears a faded marsh, with islands of yellow orange and red ground where naked trees stand erect. What roots now hold myself in this place of awe gazing down at this? I feel myself now being subjected to the same fate as these stationary trees in the marsh. Unable to move but purely an observer, I can only think marvel at the irony that is my life. How is it that I, a human being who tries so hard to learn the ways of the past, running from lesson to lesson, now muses with envy upon trees, perennial witnesses to the changing the world around. Here in this marsh would be the most objective viewers, for they stand-alone separated by murky obscurity, able to take in the information without disruption.

My walk soon comes to an end and now I lay in a bed of grass beside my warm lit home, looking toward the stars. Stars are the ultimate way of living out your story. Long after their lives come to an end; all they witness, their spirit, their meaning, fly as light eternally going through the cosmos. The Greeks literally depicted their own stories through these alien lights, pushing their history to be immortalized in lights already aged more than any of the heroes whose names they utter. These heavenly lights serve far more purpose than romanticized tools of young love. The eldest stars illuminated and banged out Creation itself.

Nature might just be the most all-encompassing story of us. Yes, the trees and the marshes and the stars were here first, but a question is begged; can this all be a setting for our story or is Man just a footnote in Nature’s narrative.