Today, I decided to try a different approach to analyzing my site. I started out to Tyler House Woods slightly later than usual, around six in the afternoon. The sky was just beginning to shift to the darker colors of night, but it was still before sunset.

As I began my ascent up Tyler Road, I heard the barking of dogs. They were most likely the same dogs that I had seen chasing the deer a week earlier. Their barking pierced the night’s silence, along with the continuous chirping of crickets.

The parking lot was more crowded than usual, and there was more activity as the residents of Tyler House returned for the night. The lights of Tyler were on and their golden light illuminated the parking lot. From one window came the faint beat of music, and I could hear murmurs of conversations within.

I continued to the edge of Tyler Woods. The sky was getting slightly darker, and the glow of the street lights was slowly becoming visible. I sat down on the curb separating the parking lot and the woods. In my other reports, I was relying too much on my sight, looking at things, identifying them, and then listing them. This time, I wanted to focus on the atmosphere of the site instead of just making lists of plant life.

I closed my eyes, as I did so, the symphony of cricket chirps again filled my ears, and, as if keeping beat, a stead crackling sound interrupted the chirps as leaves fell from the tree tops and slowly floated to the forest floor.

Adding to the music was the wind. I listened as it traveled from one side of the forest to the other, rustling the tops of the trees as it went. It was not just one loud rushing sound, but I could hear the wind approach, coming closer and closer as it moved above the tree tops.  Its strength seemed almost overpowering as it forced the trees to bow at its command, and the leaves too obeyed as they were ripped from the branches and tossed downwards to the forest floor.  I breathed in deeply the cool, night air and for once felt a part of my site, not as an observer, but as a living, breathing part of Tyler Woods.

I opened my eyes and stood up from the curve. With my journal in hand, I walked from the pavement into the forest. As I walked, the sound of the leaves crunching under my feet was almost deafening. There were definitely more freshly fallen leaves covering the ground since last week. With the stillness and quiet of the night, I could hear more than usual. The small animals which usually eluded my eyes could now be heard rustling through the fall leaves. They were most likely small chipmunks and squirrels rummaging through the debris. There were no signs of birds as the sun was going down and all the birds had gone in for the night.

As I made my way through the periwinkle valley, a pair of bright, sparkling eyes shined in the distance. A small, tan colored cat stood on the path. Its muscles were tensed and it stood frozen as it noticed me. I crouched on one knee, trying not to frighten it, and slowly crawled toward the cat. Yet, every step forward I made the cat made one step backward. I decided to give up and stood up to leave, and the cat, now certain that it was free from danger, decided to curl up on the path and sleep.

Going later in the day exposed me to a new side of my sight. I felt connected in a way that I was not before. It was not just about looking at the sight and identifying what was there. That approach, although useful makes one somewhat detached from the sight, but to take time to sit and try to feel a part of the site was something I had not accomplished before. It is now a place I want to go to, not just for class, but to find peace and tranquility.