Spring in Yellow Springs

My friend, Pam's, sump pump buzzes like mine does back home in Maine. Many downpours yesterday to the extend that her backyard looks like a pond. Tucker had to wear his raincoat, as did I, on our walks. This morning, though, shows sunshine lighting up Pam's Hemlock that that buffer her home from the road and protect my ears from loud mufflers on the cars that zip by on Dayton-Yellow Springs road. In late day, Tuck and I walked the bike path that runs from Ellis Pond, across Polecat Road and beside a farm field, over a brook. The brook was full and freely flowing. I could smell the earthworms, those that survived the flooding rains. Across the farmland stand families of trees the color of Paine's Grey on my art palette and accented by light sienna formed by budding trees. This Ohio landscape has the appearance of Asian art, the colors muted and delicate.


It's a good day for a walk along the top rim of Glen Helen, which sits above the gorge. I hear the Dutchman's Britches are blooming. I may be too early for Trillium.


I have a wonderful and giant photograph of a buck Whitetail Deer bathing in the rushing waters of the Gorge. The photographer happened upon him in the early morning; a gift from nature.


Ancient fossils of fern and shells can be found in stones that lie along the brooks that flow through Glen Helen. Vibrant Cardinal, red birds, send their sentimental tones through the woods. It is a magical place that draws folks to it in hopes of reconnecting to their biological roots, out of the prehistoric goo. Over 100 years ago there was a health spa where people could go to soak in the minerals of the Yellow Springs; iron most likely.


So, I'm off to the Glen, a place I've walked many times to soothe my soul during rough times and also to share sensual lunches with my love of the times. I'll think of the latter while I'm there and give thanks for my Ohio gals and the forces that joined them to me two decades ago.


Tonight I will drum with the drumming circle I helped start nearly 20 years ago, beating the sound of many heartbeats.


When I'm here, I wonder why I left 14 years ago. I've not encountered any other village in this nation that is as bucolic as Yellow Springs.