In spite of its name, there
is something Flemish about Wisconsin. Especially during the fall, especially
when leaves on trees start changing color and sunlight vivifies them with rich
brush strokes like in an oil painting.
This way, forests become
wings, whose heavy curtains, bare and greyish birches, protect firs and old
oaks that flack the landscape with playful shades.
It is sufficient to sit by a
lake, possibly big, and watch the opposite shore. As far as the eyes can see,
it is a never ending string of branches, foliages and peaks apparently solid and
thick, as if they were painted one by one and then connected one another
through a dark, impregnable line.
Taking a closer look,
nonetheless, can be spotted unmistakable signs of restless activity of elks,
woodpeckers and squirrels fighting over the territory against a few delegates
of human kind. And the latter ones, usually recognizable either on bulky
pick-ups or in warm, pot-bellied cabins, seem to be up for anything in order to
win.
Entering the woods, then, one
has the impression of plunging into a Dürer-like environment: with every tiny
squeak breath is held, fearing to have disturbed some tawny hare with long ears
combed backwards with affected nonchalance, while curious fawns nimbly move towards
the dense wall of trunks after shaking their soft, featherish tail and shooting
a demanding glance at the inattentive explorer.
Every once in a while the
darkness all around is broken by a house, neither too big nor too intrusive,
over which has bloomed a contour of wooden flower-pots, yet as big as tubs, to
contain ornamental grass and forgotten toys of grown-up kids, pathways
perfectly swept and hand-painted boats quietly waiting for their fate to come.
It is in winter, though,
that nature reveals its most secret and fairy-like side: as soon as snow and
ice conceal shrubs, waters and roofs, and shovels start frantically working their
way to some kind of access for the people, otherwise stuck by the fireplace
just like any other hybernating animal, the dazzling whiteness of the country
blends with the soothing whiteness of the skies, levelling off every
difference, calling off every imperfection.
It feels like being pleasantly
and confusingly confined into a slippery glass ball, where to roll restlessly
towards its bottom and its top, over and over again, in a continuous reversal
of perspectives, until next spring, until next awakening.
E.M., Long Lake