Into the Woods: Senses Minus Vision

It feels like we’re in a snake pit. The chatter of cicadas reaches a rattlesnake crescendo until there is a symphony all around me—the Dolby Digital Surround Sound of Mother Nature. The chirping of birds and crickets. A bee hums past my ear. The whooshing of the leaves, usually what I would think of as a whisper, sounds more like crashing ocean waves. The noise is tremendous. An airplane roars past, and I become an experiment in the Doppler Effect.

I’m a little bit cold and a little bit finicky. I’m standing because I can see the log in front of me is absolutely crawling with ants and two or three spiders, and I don’t want to risk being bitten. At home, when I go to the woods, I have to be very careful or I’ll be eaten up by mosquitoes. Maybe I’m diabetic or something. Sure enough, I feel the telltale soft stings of two mosquitoes on my legs and I brush them off. I should remember not to wear shorts and ridiculous shoes on Mondays.

I lean down to touch the bark of the fallen tree log in front of me. It has no temperature but so much texture. It is rough but giving, as if I could impress my fingerprint upon it. I reach to feel some leaves. Some are like sandpaper, but others seem to be waxed, they’re so smooth and glossy. Most are soft and pliable with rougher veins on the underside. Their stems are sturdy, but my fingernail could break or bleed them.

I feel sorry for one of the bushes in front of me. It is dying, and its leaves are soft and crinkly. Though they’re not quite there yet, you can tell that they will soon be crunchy, crispy, like potato chips or the shells of cicadas all coming out at once after seventeen years of sleep.