In late fall the rich colors of autumn's pageant are fading, trees are not yet winter bare and the air is crisp. It is my favorite time to walk the Greenbelt Trail, alone with my thoughts. I've always found the woods oddly comfortable but until recently didn't know why. Looking inward I found the answer in my first memory. I'm 2 or 3 years old and walking next to my grandfather, a white haired old man with baggy pants. We are in the country and going up a grassy incline. At the top of the rise a snake appears in the grass. Against my grandfather's protestations I throw a stone at the reptile and, of course, miss. My grandfather gently moves me to his other side as we pass where the snake had been. This was probably one of many walks that I took with him. But this one, which I associate with his warmth and love, is why I feel so comfortable in the woods.

Last fall I spent a few days walking the woods pondering nature's forms. One morning I see some leaves that look like wide carrots. Next to them is a bush covered with an umbrella of yellowed leaves, riddled with small holes. Were they bored through or are they simply the products of decay? Nearby are thin, dried, brown leaves, curled at the edges. Subject to early morning frost and afternoon sun they are bone dry and crinkle between my fingers. They will fall, gradually seep into the soil and eventually nourish new growth. Nature recycles.

I come upon a familiar fallen tree. The break where two main trunks snapped off from others has no freshly exposed wood. Dull mossy grass lines one side of the fallen tree trunks. Those two trunks branch endlessly into smaller and smaller branches until the thinnest lie on the path. Why haven't men with chain saws come to cut it and move its remains off the path to decompose? I don't want this tree, which I now think of as a fallen friend, to simply lay here. Isn't this something like Marlon Brando felt in On The Waterfront when he found the body of his murdered brother in an alleyway?

The next afternoon in peek-a-boo light, lush green leaves grow from a snapped-in-two trunk of a large tree strewn with white mushroom-shaped fungi. Another tree trunk has a large piece of its thick, ridged bark that is peeling away. Light comes through its myriad small holes making it look like a latticework.

Some blue jays land in a tall tree, stay for a short time, making high peeping sounds and fly silently away. At the trail's end, flitting between some branches is a lone tufted titmouse. Through binoculars I see its gray crest, which blends with the bare tree limbs; on its side is a rust streak blending into a white belly. It's hard to stop looking at the bird's stubby black bill and coal black eye.

Above Jericho Turnpike a loping great blue heron, its wings gently flapping carry the bird toward the lowering sun, a rich orange end-of-the-day ball. It's 4 p.m. Twilight will soon begin falling on the trail and I've been meditating too long. Picking up the pace I wonder if I should take Cemetery Ridge home. The ridge is an offshoot of the trail and unless you know where to look, locating its path can be tricky even in good light. When I get to the base of the ridge there is some blue sky left and my feet, without consulting my brain, begin to climb it.

Atop the ridge there's plenty of sun left and all I need is five well-lit minutes to cross it. I pass the only spot, thick with scrub, where I can get lost. The sun sprinkles orange light over fallen leaves, lighting a pathway that is leading me home. No sooner do I get off the ridge than I see a flock of Canada geese flying overhead, softly bugling. Man do I like those trumpeting birds! Now with no concerns about losing my way, I stop to watch the effects of light falling on the cones of a pine tree. Then that old familiar feeling comes over me.

I wish somehow that I could tell my grandfather about the rich sense of tranquility that I find in the woods; the gift he gave me so long ago. He'd stand there listening, hands clasped behind his back smiling that warm, genuine smile which only he could. I'd tell him that every time I walk in the woods, I unconsciously take him with me. It's about the power of love, grandpa. He might find it unclear but he'd like the idea. Too soon I'd have to tell him that I needed to get home before dark as not to worry my wife. He'd understand that. And like it too.