Rain. A sweet sweet song playing on the metal roof. Steady rhythm, pulse, cadence. I fade into the dark clouds, black black sky, like the deepest sea, behind which the promise of full moon rises. Somewhere else someone else can see it. In their own silence, far from the stream of rain drumming primordial chants above me, over, on top, around, surround sound embracing me, accepting me and allowing me. I breathe.
I’m home. Ditch work for this week is cancelled. We’ll make it up next week. Sticking around to care for our little red mare, Canella, who, so it seems, was attacked by a mountain lion, and won. One more reason to love this horse. However, with a ranch full of little kids and a few little horses, too, sticking around to keep an eye on matters probably isn’t a bad idea.
So, I am left with a week unplanned, able to be filled with time to write, time to work the (other) horses, and time to get out and explore.
In my need to get out there as the confines of high summer weigh somewhat heavy upon me, the past three days found me on foot (not horses), hiking to places I have never been before. Spontaneous adventures leading to who knows where. Yesterday led us to the base of Brewster Park, about four miles up the Rio Grande from where we began, and back along our horse trail which seems so different viewed on foot in summer. On foot, one finds more time to look closer, slower. A different perspective. Perhaps more intimate with the mountain.
Time. This summer my goal was for more time. Time to do what we’ve had to put off for so many summers. More hiking. Fishing. Early morning photo safaris. Pleasure rides, the pleasure of riding with just each other and even alone. Building a bridge – our bridge, something just for us. Writing just to write; playing with the written word, wild thoughts.
And it was on one of these hikes (it matters not which one, now, does it?) I noted the first yellow leaves of Aspen. Bunches, small trees, a leaf strewn across the path before me.
Summer promised to end. I feel her bowing early as early she came on this year. The hour glass empties and as always is only so full. How short she really stays up here.
A part of me grasps for the hope of enough sun and warmth to bring on tan legs and a ripe tomato. I am rather sure I will see neither one. Another part of me trembles with anticipation of my wild winters returning. So close. My breath quickens and I am lost with her, alone, and exactly where I want to be.
She touched the face before her
A hard and cold reflection
Slick surface on delicate hands
When really what she wanted
Was a soft embrace