My son and I went exploring the countryside today.  He set out with his Canon camera. I use a Nikon. We were itching for a few interesting photos and some liberating time outdoors.

It’s impossible to capture the language of the woods in a picture, to fill a photo with the chatter of birds, the crunch of feet on old leaves and on fallen, rotten limbs, the whisper of wind lifting hair. Months from now, perhaps I’ll once again see the photos we took today and recall the language tucked inside my memory.

In an abandoned cemetery in the woods, a swarm of bees buzzed around and in and out of a broken tomb, keeping us at a safe distance. Before retreating, stepping over barbed wire and escaping the wooded area thick with bees, we snapped a few shots of headstones crumbling and sinking into the earth .

The sunlight fell unobstructed over all manner of weeds blooming in yellow, white, and blue. The black wings of a dead bird on the ground shown nearly blue in the sun.

We left footprints in the soil of soft fields and tire tracks on curving red dirt roads. We brought home photos, memories, and the warmth of the sun on our faces.