Author: wapatangawilds

It’s getting toward late October, and I pause to remember, it’s only a month into Fall, that’s all, there is still so much Autumn flavor to savor, so I head to the high meadow and a view of the snow dusted Divide, and for the colors and most of all the silent peace that place will provide, there is a chill in the air as I sit and stare at the wonder in a wild, in the raucous crying of a Mountain jay in Aspen glow, in the gentle eyes of a woodland doe, in the sound of Aspen quaking, in the breath in the breeze, in the trees, in me, and from how much time it’s taking,  I’m free.

There is a path passing through a mountain meadow cold that shines in the early sun after a fresh dusting of snow. I walk there and think of how I have known weeping in sorrow like the willow and quaked with inner fear like the aspen. I consider how I’ve been blue as a spruce, too rigid at times like the goldenrod, and pondered like the pine. Yet, I know also I have wandered in the wild like a prairie rose, risen with the sun like the flower and tried to be wise like the sage. In the end I feel grateful for the many times life has been sweet like the corn or smooth like the sumac and that I have known love like the grass.

Aspen shadows on snow, sitting on a fallen aspen log, hearing the wind blow, by a wilderness, not feeling the chilliness, tall firs spike into a mountain blue sky, the beauty brings a needed inner sigh, the joy of stopping, being still in a wild wood, it’s a deep good, just off a trail no one travels

A stump to sit on, in a wild, a wild of Aspen, pine and fir, in the mountains,  in the feeling of free, my seat is an old tree, in a meadow clearing, of mountain grass and bramble, I’m on just a little ramble, looking at my shadow  as I sit, listening to the ice cracking on the creek as it flows below, and birds chirping somewhere behind me, not a cloud in the sky, not a breath of a breeze, feel the sun warm on my neck as the cold nips my fingers,  breathing it all in, letting it under my skin

My path this morning was heavy with frost, I followed it through grassy stems with sparkles shining there as if tossed, near a mountain rising up high into thin air, a good place for a bear, snow lying on the highest peak, it can all leave me feeling strong or tiny and weak, like times I feel I’ve made progress, yet, feel like I haven’t done much at all, and might be headed for a fall, slipping into a winter, in my mind a mental splinter, knowing it will lie inside, trying to hide, under the surface of my smiles, may be with me for far too many miles, sleeping in a hibernate, until I can figure a way to extricate, and in that feel the release, as I let  it go like flying geese, near the mountain waking like a spring, walking into flowers blooming new, under a mountain sky of blue, still, this morning I am enjoying just being in the frosted shadows of my path

A secluded spot, where I’m just a dot, seen from the sky, among rock and trees, and no questions why, I sit on a rock that’s anciently old, feeling the air turn a bit more cold, I and myself are together, we wander in wilds, almost no matter the weather, wondering always what’s around the next bend, usually near the start of day or near the end, we enjoy each other’s company, for us it’s enough, when the path is easy or when the path is rough, never seeking to be excluded but always seeking to be secluded

November flakes, it’s all it takes, to calm me down, as I walk around, as a cold wind blows flaky snows, on a rocky mountain tower, watching it come, a mountain snow shower,  then in a sheltered valley, falling snow swirls and twirls, find myself saying, wow, wow, wow,  feeling like a boy again, as if in the morning of my life,  even though I’m in my evening, feels like a thanksgiving

The little woodland below the mountain, its peace reveals itself in the quiet of the morning, in its trees and leaves, in its birds and bears, below the soaring heights, in the glint of the sun on the grass in the underbrush, in the gray when there are clouds, in the lure of the footpaths that call me to follow, in the wonder of new fallen snow, in it’s deer and lion, coyote and bobcat, I come and go knowing I will be the only one, brings me a calm, in the little woodland below the mountain

Nice to be back, to my spot of solitude, up on Green Mountain, off trail, where no one else comes and goes, to sit on a dead log, by an old path, by pine and spruce, in birdsong, to share a stare with a deer, past the stones, past the wounds, watching the sun light up the Kinnickinick, feel the chill in the November wind, to be still in the silence, to know I can still come here on foot, feel the emotion of how long it’s been, how hard it’s been, to just be glad I’m back here again. 

There, in the valley, is a foot path to follow,

across a high rolling prairie,

to a high plains hill, with distant mountains in the mix,

on a morning mellow, breathing it in, deep,

up the hills and down, through grass and rock,

walking between earth and sky, today and I