Rain turns to hail turns to snow
Winter’s white line blending with brown
A slow sad march down the mountain
Covering the last of summers stories
Faded like a sepia portrait of an old cowboy
Yesterday today tomorrow
You may say bad things comes in threes
I’d rather think of body, mind and soul
Nothing is not connected
Though too often we find ourselves alone
Seemingly old words shared with a new friend:
“As I write, I am down at the Little Cabin, our one room cabin built of old round logs, set out on the bluff above the river. Big Haus, our main home for now, is being used for the last big event of the season, so we’ve chosen to hide away down here, and I love it. A small satellite dish and solar panel which charges a battery which in turn is inverted to household power allows me the use of the computer and internet, though we have the old wood cook stove giving us heat, and candles and kerosene lamps at night by which we work. There is an outhouse nearby and when the rain and hail (and soon to be snow) are not as loud on the metal roof as they are right now, I can hear the song of the Rio Grande just below us.”
Get away, far away…
I wonder at times if I am running away? Or running to something just out of reach?
A new view, looking out of these old weathered eight-pane windows. Snow beneath the beetle killed spruce trees. Rolling waves of light and dark, subtle shades and repeated variation, hillside after hillside fading from green to grey. It’s only a matter of time.
Are we better off not looking?
Yet even blindfolded, would you feel the tears of the trees dropping their needles upon you as we stumble through the last of the shade?