Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Elizabeth Arms

Yesterday just after it rained I visited a friend to pick up my daughter. When I got there the kids were making spin art and I noticed my friend had her sheet music open to Debussy's Sunken Catherdral. She played the opening bars for me so I could hear the music's expansiveness, and it's true, each chord took flight off the wires of the score like Osprey over the Sound, approaching unapproachable wingspans. She said she likes to play Debussy's watery music in the rain.

It hadn't been raining when we went to the Sunken Forest last Sunday, and it might as well have been a cathedral. A dwarf forest sheltered in between sand dunes, a tangle of 200 year old quasi bonzai holly and sassafras trees with windows that opened out to scenes of the shore of the bay. The path heads west on a boardwalk through this sandy canyon of forest until you get to a platform, deep in a holly forest where we heard the rackle of grackles. Then uphill towards the Eastern dune, climbing high surrounded by invisible warblers hidden in the gnarled and salty growth. Finally rising over the canopy we viewed the swale echolocuted by still more invisible birds, the open air perfumed with panicles of cherry.

Sinking it slow falling isn't it? What's the significance of a Sunken Cathedral, and has the sunken meadow really sunk? I'm told the Sunken forest hasn't, it just appears that way.

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