I went for a hike on a small mountain near here. It used to be the national headquarters of an outdoors-related organization, but they moved to another state a couple of decades ago. Now it's held as a non-governmental nature reserve.
It was a great, though short, hike. I only had time for one of the trails, although all the trails are not particularly long. Still, the mountain is not exactly small. You could look down from the nature center several hundred feet through the trees toward a large lake.
Along the trail, I heard the sound of woodpeckers and raccoons from deeper in forest. There were large ferns, blossoms, and young, new leaves. The air throbbed with the scent of vegetation and blossoms. When I descended the trail along the far side, reached the road, and was standing along the railing of an iron bridge, looking upstream, a large greenish gray bird--a heron?--flew out from under the bridge and up the tunnel made by the tree branches arching over the water.
On the way back, you pass through a broad valley, much broader and sunnier than the one in which I saw a heron. This valley is one or two miles wide, depending on from where you measure. You could look across the broad sweep of the valley; the trees along the far ridge seemed mystically large. There was summer mist in the air, premature perhaps, the kind you usually see on July or August afternoons.
I felt grateful to be alive, to be in this place, to be able to go to New York City, for my family, for one beautiful day in this life. I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving.
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