The path winds between lakes. Sky hastingly changing colour. A swan moves through the water looking for bread?
I realize I’m not breathing. I want to remember the sounds of nature.
The mournful whistle of the Bullfinch. Ducks chatter quietly. Tit birds are chirping high up in the trees.
The sounds of nature on a spring evening.
Maybe we’ll have snow next week. At the moment, it’s a lovely spring. People are enjoying the outdoors and the sun.
Years ago I was on a great walk at Sjaelssoe.
Steep hills, small springs, pastures, winding paths and a wooden pier for ‘happy swimmers’.
The temperature varied a lot depending on whether I was in the woods or on the sunny meadow.
It was bitterly cold in the wood by the springs, and the lake didn’t beckon for a swim, on the contrary. But the walk was worth remembering ❤
The place where you lose the trail is not necessarily the place where it ends.
Tom Brown, Jr.
“Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone — …”
The Sun by Mary Oliver
One fine November evening
Én af de fineste november aftener ved Inderbredning i Isefjorden
Welcome November! I hope that your days will be as beautiful as the one below. A small improvement will be most welcome 🤗
Every time I see cotton grass, my thoughts fall on the Norwegian mountain lakes.
The video from the Norwegian mountains is one of my absolute favourites.
Watch and get inspired!
“There’s been a fight going on!”
My first thought was that some people couldn’t agree on the bill at the little restaurant by the pond. But it turned out much more poetic.
The Cob had successfully defended his pen against another cob.
When I arrived to the pond, he was brushing the feathers as if it was a glorious knight armour and he certainly was impressive.
Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
Bill Morgan, Jr.
The cold was our pride, the snow was our beauty. It fell and fell, lacing day and night together in a milky haze, making everything quieter as it fell, so that winter seemed to partake of religion in a way no other season did, hushed, solemn.
Patricia Hampl
Go to the winter woods: listen there, look, watch, and “the dead months” will give you a subtler secret than any you have yet found in the forest.
Fiona Macleod, Where the Forest Murmurs
I haven’t seen him for weeks now. The first time we met him, he lectured about wildlife in the bog.
He is always accompanied by female assistants. They carry all sorts of stuff for him: Buckets, magnifying glass, nets and fishing gear.
But people around him are having a very hard time keeping up with his enthusiastic research of animals, fish and insects.
He runs across the tree roots so fast that his feet barely touch the ground.
Where others would fall, he soars like a cloud drifting in the sky.
Often, he lies on his stomach and watch the colourful dragonflies acting with blinding speed across the lake.
The last time we saw him, he was really excited. He hovered towards us in his usual way.
Gently he handed an object forward with both hands. It was a large skin from a snake not easy to find.
Be very careful, it breaks easily, he said.
Seconds later he was gone.
Soon after we could hear him talking with his assistant.
I have met many people throughout my life, but rarely a 4-year-old little boy who impresses so much with his being.
His name is Sebastian.
HANNA'S WALK 
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