Over the hills leads the road to Kanne; along meadows. Cows stare at me and come to the fence for a hug of their velvet noses. A large tongue licks my hand; shall I eat it or she me? Leave the meadow-animals alone!; I shout, and scare the milking farmer, sour in the bucket the white fluid splashes. Drops around my ears and on my jacket I pick one up with a finger and taste.
Winter is near; the trees almost bold in the wood that covers the slope. Birds twit high above my head; call me names or discuss what is happening to the earth as they know it. Do they have to fly south this year, or will it be warm enough to stay? I leave some crumbs of bread; maybe now they think more positive of me, I hope, and kick a pebble that rolls down the path I have to go.
Over here there are still some autumn colors left; orange over yellow and browne, and still green is the grass, but winterish thick; maybe covered white in a few weeks when snowman time arrives, or will christmas be dressed as an indian-summer again? The paths stick in mud of heavy rainfall; drops become small ponds where reed grows too high on the bumpy hills.
Through the forrest-roof the sky slips in heavenly blue. Some angel-white clouds, memory of a believe I don’t religion anymore. This god who once created seems to have become a destroyer: demolition man takes so many varieties out; each day species disappear, and what I picture today will not be possible in some time. Already paved trails, not able to produce mud anymore...
Some died a silent death; branches still reach but won’t grow again, still function as a warning sculpture after many years of full alive waiting for an untamed wind to blow. And it will fall on the path, obstructing the muddy road where my boots still find no obstacles to step over. I look back and hope that this warning will still stand for ages.
The iron cross is another men-made warning as a purpose to remember. I don’t know who or why; it is just there, flowered as a war-memorial, or was it an accident, or just an outing of believe that is fading, also in this once catholic region? A smith used his craftsmanship, his skills to make it as complex as possible, and what is left is a sign to mark the trail, the crossroad where it erects just besides a tormented willow that waves its crown; shouting: Here next to me!
A mansion hidden behind an old corn-field. Who is so lucky to live here so big in a land with no houses, surrounded by woods and the hills where it is build upon? Does the owner know the value, or does he just drive his car as fast as possible over the paths in order to speed up to the human world? Nature leaving maybe, nothing more than an expensive kind of wallpaper. Or does he value this crossing of ancient history where so many walked before me and saw? Was he one of them and did where I’m not able to?
Behind my back lies the village where I walked up from; the church and tiny houses in the valley. I rest for a while and look down along the green strokes, the solitaire bushes and the fields, ready for winter in a dark browne that colors the loess topping the earth so fertile. And I stare, a hand above my eyes, against the wind at the high circling creatures that ascend and descend from layer to layer as dancers in the sky.
It is not far anymore to the Belgian village Kanne, where I will have a lunch and coffee on a terrace, because in warm clothes it is still bearable to sit outside. And I want to stay in the open, no walls surrounding and enjoy the silence, where there are almost no people where I go.