The birds are boisterous in the early morning, silent mid
day in the heat, heat still lingering, a heavy burden remaining from the peak of summer. The intensity of the seasons in the high
Summer is ending. Longer
shadows even at noon with the sun arcing lower in the southern sky. Crisp outlines to every object in the
landscape before us. Signs of
change. Promise of change. Subtle and certain. There is great comfort in knowing what to
expect as the seasons unfold one onto the next.
I am here listening through thin walls of the tent and
realize how separate I am. Connections to nature we created. Threads in our own
minds. But the longer I am here the more
I understand: we shall never be a part. We are but observers, trespassers in the
The sound of a hummingbird zipping by, way up here on the
Divide, seemingly a world away from where you might expect such a fragile
creature to choose to be, and I think of how displaced we are here when most have
only known these delicate birds hovering around red plastic feeders and it
somehow doesn’t cross our mind they might survive without us to feed them. Do we forget at times how the world might
manage without us? We choose to intervene.
And deem ourselves important as we stir
the sugar water.
Am I jaded to the wilds around me as I turn my back and
prepare to leave? Or can I learn to take
with me in a secret place inside the vastness of the time we have shared
together unlike anyone else? Such is a
They tell me I may never find such a beautiful view, as if
that is what matters most, and I consider their ignorance wondering if they
would base the quality their marriage on the most beautiful bride.
What I want beside me when I wake each morning is deeper and
richer than a pretty view.