legend of the catman trail

legend.

three witches watch over the enchanted forest. as dusk falls silently around the giant live oaks, and spanish moss whispers together, the forest itself breaths in quiet sighs of longing for the old days of spanish gold pieces, or even further back when the indians of the glade wrapped ceremonies of worship to the trees; the holy trees which reach skyward and form the forest canopy backlit by the pinprick stars at night . the heavy breaths of the marine wood and the haunts of ancestors gone moons before shimmer off the sacred seams between their trunks.

a silver moon rises above the black waters of the inland lakes which stream down to the gulf of mexico and her emerald clean seas, the path of alligators and gars, and the native creek tongued peoples of the island. spinning in the silver light giant spyders weave their nocturnal flashing webs while the day flutters of butterfiles winged silent at night's forest falling.

the witches gather and brew.

chanting the charms of their spells, the deep forest orchestrates the dumb tongued answer back. it echoes off the white sands and reverbrates through the scrub oaks, bouncing back to their ears. it says "we are the forest of your beginnings, the vernal woods of your conception, the everlasting reminders of who you are and from whence you were borne, our voices are that of many waters, and the waves that resound upon your shores. this is our answer to you, we cannot be bought by man, our years of sturdiness stand as our witness to all that have come before you, and will be long after you are gone. we are the eternal guardians of your genesis. to us you owe your life and undying allegiance. this we command you: be true to us, and we will be true to your children and to your children's children unto the end of time".

the wiches gather and brew.

part I
         

our giant live oak forks into the distance, it hands raised up in praise to the eternal florida sun. ring by ring its fingers are wrapped in promises of magic, on the altar of our witches brew. a wedding of bark and sun, of leaf and rain, years crawl by into the consummation of time warped down to the deep root's penetration. deeper and deeper it gouges into the moist wet earth, probing for the life giving fountains, seeking its own genesis.

a halo surrounds its head and a thorny crown gleans it furrowed brow. time stands still. bark bitten and broken out in growth, over eons the hard heart is driven deep into its core. the marriage is complete. the three witches bow down before its majestic shape, and worship at its feet. silence drives the forest deep. man's holy of holies rears up before him giving life to all the enchanted land beneath it.

we are complete in her hand. we are framed in the goodness of her gift. and her gift is perfect.

the witches of the enchanted forest form a circle around its huge trunk, and in perfect silent harmony take her holy vows.

part II

morning's minion circles into a circle, the rising glow against the forest glenn. a pattern of diamonds shining in the new day's sun, sparkling and new, wet and dripping with her wetness. the silk is strung taught across the void, hung like a lined shroud between the leaves and new growth sprouts. silent and quiet, still and stealthy, the eight legged wonder secretes its love one drop at a time, strong and unbroken, she lays her trap. in the forest distance thousands of patterns emerge against the newly lit day's revealing, a maze of arachnoids, each in its lair.

fluttering on wings of color, yellow and black and spotted alert to the new day dawning before its antenna, and cacoon cast off in metamorphosis, the forest child hidden against the bark of witches worship; leaves her safety to challenge the flowered woods. splaying in and out between webs of deceit she flies, not in a straight line, but in a zig zag course of confusion, towards her mated pollen of jacob's jacket. (the hunger all around her, she is oblivious) faith follows her every guide down the trunked webs and into the garden of innocence.

cheating her fate, she follows the lit colors of morning's dew, to the garden, the gesthemane of our witches prayers. leaving behind the jaws of wracked pain and despair, the butterfly of the forest lands on the flowers of our hope, sucking the sweet pollen down to begin the morning of our birth. our children's children breathe the hope of our ages.

the three witches, holding hands, circling the trunk, smile; the vow is now complete.

part III


a path strays off clean and swept, manicured and free, wandering in and out of our glenn, no twig or bough in its wake, cleaned by an invisible brushed hand; a chess match of trails hidden under branches, along clear watered creeks, under felled trees now bleached white by florida's relentless summer sunned daze, darting in and out crossing over each other and then back again. every early morning manicured in perfection. the trails wander around the giant live oaks, in their shaded palms, and dance through sunlit groves only to turn back on themselves once more. they are seemingly endless, and pointless in their meanderings leading from one place to another only to come back to the starting point again. a long circle, circled by other circles, in dizzying harmony alongside themselves.

the rustle of the wind in the pine tops, and the beating of the branches beset by summers unwinding breezes in the live oaks, is that the noises of the forest? but this rustling persists, in a monotonous monotone of sweeping branches over clearing ground. garbed in brown sacks of cotton, under matching hats of pointed sacks, they work endlessly. long beards of white satin, aging themselves against the eternal woods, short and stout they sweep, using the branches of the vowed ringed trees as their weapons against the ever creeping growing strands of green growth they clear the paths. they appear in the corner of your eyes, like a motion that is barely caught in a framed iris. the mind plays tricks. "what was that?" and by the time you turn your head it is gone. only the prism of brown light is left. was it real or a dream? the sweepers make quick work of their early morning vigil. like a shadow passing quickly in a forest clearing they go. the only evidence that they were there are the cleared perfect paths that go through the forest bottom. maze after maze of trails turning back on themselves.

the three witches start out, following the sweeper paths, each holding onto their sister's garments in front of them. and soon disappear into the forest itself, hidden among the oaks and slash pines of the eternal sunlit day.

part IV


standing in silence.

spread out across the clearing numbered one by one they grow.

a testimony to our witches. THEIR covenant of love. broadening arms draped with gray visitations of age.

for they are ageless. they are eternal. her spanish moss hanging like a wreath, crowned. they are holy.

their promises have been kept, our holy vows honored. and in return, they stand, proud for our children's children.

a bargain struck and kept.

the witches of the enchanted forest stayed true to themselves, and more importantly true to US.

they garnered no riches upon this earth to turn under the keepers of the forest, for worldy gain, but held tight to the promise made

eternal ages ago.

so when we enter this holy of holies, this enchanted land, remember the price paid, and the Sacred Vows kept. be still and hear, be quiet and see, be peaceful and they will honor their end of the promise for us and our children and our children's children until the end of time.

and most important do no harm and no harm will ever befall us, and we will know what the forest hides and now reveals,

and that is, that she, is us....


postlogue

standing in silence across the forest's clean swept paths, they stand one plus one together; and reach across

tall and resolute, long armed branching to each other as two. over the long wooded bark they hover across the trail, forming a natural arch

under which the small wooded creatures scamper, while the forest butterflies perch quietly on their vernal summer leaves until eventide

calls them apart. our large spiders weave silken webs between their trunks , and the full moon still unlit rises from the emerald gulf tides.

they stand, in perfect symmetry and harmony with the deepness of summers edges growing together, until the palms of their hardened branches

intertwine. forever now as one they grow, wrapping around themselves year after year, their age highlighted by the old spaniard's moss, and now even

that, is as inseparable as the two oaks. hundreds of years have passed since the seedlings of their genesis were strewn across the oakland floors where thousands

of other seedlings grew. now, these two remain. guardians of the forest, these two shelter its creatures and give home to them, protecting the land from itself,
and shading our sweepers as they set about cleaning the floors beneath them.

the indians have come and gone, desoto's men no longer camp about their base, but the eternal florida sun gives their leaves green growth,

and the late summer storms both quench and strengthen them.

and on the full moon, when their palms are pressed hard together, and the path is silver lit, three old denizens once again pass under their boughs, holding on to

each other's brown garments as they walk the eternal forest paths in peace.