Elf, Cricket and Canella watching the evening sun
As the wind whips colder each day, the stir of change is in the air. Ah yes, we feel it, you can smell it, but still, we see it not. Across the mighty river remains a dark, rich green. The aspen hillside is unchanged, unwavering, there is no visual of a transformation you know is brewing. I feel a promise of a winter soon to come. We look to the mountain around us in anticipation of a different color, the inevitable revolution, spreading across the mountain in a glorious show of dazzling gold.
Nothing yet. Funny I should look for it…
We wait, we anxiously watch for the first tree to turn, knowing how many weeks are still to wait before the mountain is aglow with the quaking aspen in their fall glory. The vigil of anticipation.
She is unpredictable at times, but steady in the long run. She’ll throw a curve ball from time to time, the early storm, the twister winds, but hold her leaves until her usual cycle, won’t she? She’ll tease and taunt in her nonchalant manner, making us desire and want more and more and more. But at the end of the day, the end of the season, she will continue in her path of age old wisdom, that which commands far beyond the reaches of man, no matter how we try to control, alter, adjust. I hope.
Again I reflect on the inevitability of change, and the beauty of anticipation in our daily life, the spice, the zest, the zing, the thrill of noticing each tiny, little change, and how at loss we would be if we missed it, blinded by our “more important things.” Like the big storm arriving, or a child’s first step, or the birth of another colt…
And as such I watch the horses grow. Cricket is nearly three months old, and looks like a small horse, no longer a foal. Elf (yes, we’re still waiting a name, and he’s definitely out grown this one) is blossoming into a fine young colt. And our latest, Little E, well, stand back, this boy needs room to grow, room to run, room to roam. The blessing of space to run wild and free, or so he may believe, and return to the comfort of a soft pile of straw under a shed, by choice, his own free will… Can’t you relate to that?