the growing line of exposed black waters of the Rio Grande
The wind blows violently. It is spring somewhere else. Somewhere else there is exposed, dry ground, fields and fields of brown, yellow grasses waving in a humid breeze, rich dirt stirred up, temperate to the touch if you reach down and dig your fingers in, the rich, sweet smell of the earth, decay freshened by the heat of the sun on temperate soils, warming the air as it rises and blows east. It reaches the mountains, the Divide, our world which may remain white for months yet to come, and the wind turns angry and cold, biting into the cliffs and cutting down through the gorges with the force of melting waters . I can only imagine the wrath with which this same wind descends upon the San Luis Valley below us.
the earth exposed
Yesterday I saw dirt. Here, so high, in a world still white and frozen, seemingly endless seas of snow and ice. On a south facing hillside beneath the exposed face of red cliffs. Dry ground with last years grasses sticking through, brown and dried, tired memories enduring.
The redwing blackbird returned on time, I dare say even a few days early. The same tree, the same time, every year. For how many years have I awaited him with seed on the feeder board when I hear his call? And I worry what he will do when I am gone. The boys remind me the birds fared well before I cared for them, and I wonder then how old he may be, does he remember a time before me?
redwing blackbird and stellar jay
He brings a new song to the mountain, a mountain with which our knowledge and intimacy is intertwined with breathing and the surge of our blood. We discern the sounds of our birds, the few that remain with us for the winter. 5 chickadees, 7 magpies, 9 stellar jays, and the two ravens that feed on the leftover table scraps Forrest delivers to the chicken coop each morning, the same two which follow us about the mountain calling out in recognition as I am out alone on a snowshoe in the afternoon.
The sound of the blackbird was anticipated, but still somehow shocking. A new noise, a new song, stirring the air like a pleasant breeze. We hear the call before we see the flash of jet black, always where we expect it to be.
Completion. Our understanding of the world around us, the world of which we are granted to be a part of here, if only for a while. Not as distant strangers, observers, but as participants, players in the game. At times I feel as wild as the coyote, and just as misunderstood.
How incomplete would I feel if I missed the return of the birds? How foolish am I to feel it matters?
frozen waterfall