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Logging continues. Now it’s the three of us and the dog. Sure he helps. Supervising. He lies in the deep snow of the river bed, head up, alert, and every time you look over at him, he’s looking over at you. When that gets old, he’s off barking something we never see. It must be working, all that howling, because nothing got us yet.
It’s forty degrees and snowing and we’re standing on top of the Rio Grande roasting hot dogs on long willow branches over the burning pile of slash. You can hear the river louder now, a little angry and thus a little frightening. A few places you see the black void broken through the solid white. The great unknown. You wonder how deep it is, how thick the ice upon which you stand.
More snow. Heavy, wet snow. Coming in waves. Too warm even to stick to my snowshoes.
And in the middle of it all, the red-wing blackbird arrives. A week early. Always seems like they choose stormy weather to herald their arrival, and I feel justified in leaving out seeds each morning on the picnic table outside our kitchen window so, selfishly, I can see them. There is comfort in attracting what little life remains on the mountain around us.
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If the silent land
Would learn to scream
Then would we finally
Listen?
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Gin Getz 
“If the silent land
Would learn to scream
Then would we finally
Listen?”
This is an interesting question and I am saddened as I ponder the thought. I’m afraid we would hear clearly at first and then stop listening after a while. Is that not the way our society has become?
Or would the cries of the forest drive us insane because we would hear and know specifically its pain and need but be unable to provide help and comfort?
I hold hope, Karen, in believing that in listening we’ll learn the answers. But yes, we might have to hear the sorrow first. How else to we find the path from darkness to light? We have to feel in that darkness first. I know you’re right though – how many would never dive into the darkness in the first place? I guess I find that a fascinating part of life and would not want to miss it.
I’m learning for myself that silence is critical for healing and growth. So too, the land.
love your thoughts feelings about the mountians and the peaceful calming magic that comes from staring at your pictures of natures beauty. . .
Love your writing, like a journal for all to see; and the photos. Gin, I just LOVE your poetic question at the end. Like a mantra we should ask over and over and over again.