Snow blowing from the south and west.
Still I lie
Against your frozen breast
While slowly smoothly gently silently
You cover me with your drapes of white
As each intricate, perfect flake of snow settles
And joins and masses above me, of me
I am under the heavy cloak which keeps me
As a mother tucking her child to bed
I drift to slumber in your loving arms
A lullaby in the falling snow
And I sleep
I am buried in this sea of white and nothing else matters
Not now
Not yesterday
Not tomorrow
In darkness we learn to see.
Long shadows, long nights, long heavy sighs and sleeps.
We dream of what is to come, what we will make in this world, what we will make of ourselves of our children.
The world around us revolves regardless.
Snow falls softly this morning. I turn further within. Enwrapped in the cocoon of winter. The silence spins about me, somehow warm and comforting.
We become so concerned with fear of death that we forget to live.
I read yesterday: “You cannot compromise the dream or the dream dies.” (Terry Tempest Williams)
I am not willing to let my dreams go, but at times I forget how to keep them alive.
The mountain still shuffles with life. Little tracks cross those made by my large snowshoes. Others follow my paths; leave the work of breaking trail for me. Most are smaller, lighter. My trail becomes their highway. Better still are the set tracks left by the boys’ snowmachines, which by now, with little new snow, criss-cross every open meadow, continuing the twisted hidden trails around tight trees in uncertain patterns through the groves of spruce and aspen.
A surprising number of elk remain up here this year. We worry for them. They have been caught unaware by big storms before, left with snow far too deep to paw through, far too deep to allow them a way off the mountain.
The moose will remain all winter. Yesterday in the last light of the day, we watch as the horses turn in unison towards the willows along the east side of the pasture. Funny to call it a “pasture” when it is now nothing but white. The horses too think of it as such and insist on heading out each night after feeding. They paw and roll and romp and fend for themselves after their bellies are full. This is good for them. They allow their wild side to emerge in winter.
Towards the willows the horses are faced, all snorting, tails raised, neck arched, prancing excitedly. We know this for what it is: the warning of the moose. Nothing affects these horses quite like the moose. We step out onto the deck, look where they are all looking, and see the big black awkward silhouette moving down the fence line through willows. I call to the horses, laugh and try to reassure them. Now they know better than me. The stallion is up front, flanked by the two mares. The younger horses well behind them. They keep their distance, but define their space.
They do not settle but continue their upset. We continue to watch from the warmth and comfort of the kitchen. Now we see the dark shape of the moose crossing the pasture right below the little herd. Crossing, and passing, and contining on regardless of, unconcerned with, the horses.
The horses, in kind, cease their upset and ease up. Their fear came straight at them, approached them, and passed, leaving then unscathed. They stand their now with their heads and necked lowered, humbled. One by one they now face away from where the moose went, and towards the barnyard. Casually, they return to the corrals by the hay shed and resume their dinner as if nothing ever happened.
Down in the willows looking up mountain