Abode Of The Great Spirit
I am writing in Armstrong Redwood Grove along the Russian River in Northern California.
The box canyon in which this ancient grove lies is a place of mystery.
The indians came into it fearfully, for it seemed to them to be a place of spirits,
Of the Great Spirit.
They seldom came at all, and were awed by it's ponderous silence and deep shade,
As I am now.
The sun journeys far in breaking thourgh to the clover and fern on the forest floor.
A bird-call from high shadows echoes as through a sound tunnel,
For the deep needles and rotting chips cushion the cathedral sound
And send it ricocheting three hundred feet in the air.
"Down in the forest something stirred,