Pole Mountain with only a dusting of snow
Night must be bitter.
For us, we sleep well. A pot of water hisses on the wood stove. Moon light filters in the big pictures windows. Gentle breathing from beneath heavy comforters. Cats and a big dog curled beside us.
Outside, I wonder, I worry. It is bitter.
The sun clears the southern end of Finger Mesa later each morning. I have already fed and the horses mill about the piles of hay in a sort of frenzy. They are not comfortable. It is 20 below zero.
Slowly we, and I believe they, the horses, the birds, the few that remain here beyond the playful frolic of summertime, Stellar jays, magpies and the pair of ravens, slowly we watch with eager anticipation the line of light edge its way up the pasture from the big, frozen river; gradually approaching and not soon enough.
Suddenly it is upon us.
And with the sun comes a sense of relief I think we might only understand if we’ve been out in that bitter air. It is instant. I do not know how. Surely it is not the actual warmth that we feel, but rather the warmth that we anticipate. It is enough to warm us, instantly. A quick relief and release the moment the rays touch our exposed cheeks.
Our tense shoulders relax. The muscles around our eyes soften. Our narrow vision widens and yields peripherally. Suddenly we can breathe again.
