Just another day.

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old leaf in new snow

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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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logs

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If the silent land

Would learn to scream

Then would we finally

Listen?

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winter flag

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