Today I took my feet to Scotland’s Hermitage.
There, pines stand tall and nude and without shame, crested with green boughs defying the coming winter, too proud to don September’s ephemeral golden robes. Moss and ferns bid silence to footfalls, beckoning pilgrims to meditate on Braan’s hymns as they breathe Virginia air.
The fawn stands as blind sentinel upon the cliff, gazing ever watchful and unseeing upon the falls, where salmon yearly gather to school the world of men. Leaping, without food, unto watery graves, they instruct. Men, do you not know that the Maker has made us to plant seed, to be fruitful? Men, do you not know that death is for all, that how you die is defining?
Death for planting. Death for fruit. Death for love.
School in session each year. Instructing with each leap. Before fawning eyes of stone.