56 years later
with heron legs
I was born just across the river from Washington D.C. in late winter, 1966, and Rock Creek Park would’ve been my first exposure to a true forest, I think. Exploring it for the first time since my baby-carriage days, I can’t help wondering about the extent to which I might’ve first imprinted on trees and boulders right here. Or were those pre-verbal impressions completely overwritten by my exposure to the north woods of Maine, where we moved later on that summer? I don’t know. These woods are certainly a lot closer to what I came to love in central Pennsylvania, where I’ve spent most of my life.
Woodrat photohaiku 