Looking up River and into the high country from Snowmachine Point
Darkness arrives a little later each day.
The minutes of daylight are slowly extended. The sun is higher in the sky; shadows are shorter; days are longer. We notice the slightest change.
The river begins to open, the Mighty Rio, swallowing mouthfuls of ice in its still quiet trail when no one is looking. A black ribbon flowing, twisting, dancing through the heavy layer of white. Beneath, the river runs black and deep, quiet and still, a hidden grin on a somber face.
Without fanfare, it breaks free. So subtle and soft and slow this transformation.
Perhaps you did not notice And the tracks of the moose to the open water tell us they know.
We know the torrents that will follow when the melting begins in full force, the big brown waters of the wild spring runs. Subtlety is then lost, and none can overlook. Now, it is only a hint in the calm, cool waters that have cut through the seemingly forever white landscape of the frozen river. It is but a minimal change, a hint, a suggestion of what will be, what is and lives beneath, beyond our blatant view.
Nature is not ready to scream “Spring!” quite yet. For now she yawns, blinks her eyes, but does not stir awake. She will remain in winter a little while longer
The Rio Grande begins to open
This morning darkness is absolute. The horizon is black, pure and still. Endless. There is no moon, only starlight to reflect back so faintly on the crystalline snow, and the delicate pattern of pin-prick lights across the vast black seas of the sky. Between here and the heavens are the dark looming silhouettes of the mountain, complete, composed and motionless. They are this overwhelming bulk separating the faint glow on the surface of the snow from the twilight overhead.
Between the two I sit in silence, warm and comfortable, inside looking out, a part but so far away.
Looking up at the Little Cabins over the Rio Grande as the sun lowers behind