You are on a rural road in Delaware. There is nobody around.
The piedmont at Mt. Cuba greets you.
sprays of hair-awn muhly in pots
You take a path through the formal and experimental gardens of Mt. Cuba. To a lake.
Past the autumn tree sprays on the right.
And on the left, the witch’s brooms of white pine.
You are looking for the light beyond these trees. That is the meadow garden. Planted as a garden and tended as such.
Native flowers – now almost all gone – but predominantly planted with native grasses.
You reach the lake. Actually more than one. But one big one.
Your eyes are on the sourwood tree on the other side of the big lake. In early November it is red.
You circumnavigate the lake.
White nodding ladies’ tressses protecting themselves at the water’s edge
There where the light is, beyond these trees, is the meadow garden.
You notice how insistent are the reflections of the trees in the water
The sourwood tree would be upon you if it were more robust. But there it is and you cross the little bridge below it.
before you turn away to walk onto the meadow path.
It slopes upwards along this side of the meadow.
There are two trees in the meadow: you pass the white oak first.
You reach the corner of the meadow and make a left turn.
The second tree, a flowering dogwood, is bare now. Shrunken.
You make a second turn to the left and follow the meadow’s length. No slope here.
The wind picks up and dies down. Only the wind for company.
You reach the pathway out with the holly greeting you.
Back onto the roads of Delaware and to the city. Your eyes pulled constantly upward.
You keep reverting your attention to the road.
A meadow garden in the late Autumn.