Author: wapatangawilds

Sideoat on the side of a hill, standing alone and still, by a small human-made pile of rock I wish could talk, cattail sways in a valley swale, wild red rose hip in each water run dip, blazing star gray with seed here and far, sage white in the early daylight, bluestem, lots of them and a prickly pear on the stony ground over there, in a rolling high prairie where you can disappear from everyone and everything, where only you know where you are and you can hear your heart sing

I am sitting alone on soft grass in a natural area, amidst patches of lingering snow with the sun rising past the hill behind me. The air is still and clear. There is no movement at all. Sunlight covers everything outside the shade where I sit. I don’t feel like moving, after my walk to this stop spot. Gray rugged mountains dotted with evergreen rise before me, with no road between us, though an old barb wire fence separates me from the next field. The patches of white snow lie quietly, waiting to melt in between dead grass stems tan and brown and dry white sage. Life is here, in the water from the melting snow, in the earth, the soil, the trees, the rocks, the sun, in the patches. Away from the news, away from the strife, out here, always going on, is life. Now I am moving, walking on and find myself in the midst of a herd of deer, moving, grazing, nibbling, staring at me, only mildly disturbed by my presence. Living life in the patches.

Fall is getting near the end of its glow, the creek is low and in the high mountains there is already snow, I sit on cut wood in stacks, all morning been working my axe, I breathe the air with a sense of ease, the sun in the cool is only a tease, littered with fallen leaves the land feels like it is lying down to rest, it’s when I like it best,  the land is still, the bears have had their fill, we are past the summer heat, waiting for a winter greet, letting the calm in the land in me, by dry seedheads and a Cottonwood tree, no need to hurry, no need to worry, for these moments I choose not to think and from this wild take a long drink.

In a Fall snow, on a bench, in between, in between summer and winter, in between rocky mountain steep and grassy plain asleep,  sitting here in the beauty and the cold, I don’t feel old, in a feeling of contentment, thinking kept in containment, it takes an act of will just to sit and be still, I am taken to a quiet place in this table mesa place, I sit among the frozen, an act I have chosen, I look around and see the snow-covered ground, as above snowflakes fill the sky and in the valley below three bucks in the new snow lie

Last day of September, hello wild, its Glenn again,

on a morning cool with breeze, red in the little sumac trees,

after a smoky waxing moon in the night,

sitting in the rising dawns light, on a ridge by a pine,

breathing in the fine, a softness in the land,

can almost hold it in my hand

I am watching a bear and a bear is watching me, then along comes a coyote and we are three.  The bear and me and coyote, we are all three eating wild plums and they are sweet.  We are all sitting on the ground, connected to the earth, connected warily to each other, carefully keeping an eye on each other, yet there is no threat, we are sharing a space, a time, for a only a few moments, yet moments that will linger for me long after we have gone our separate ways.

It is true I love the beauty of the Flint Hills in summer, so rolling green dotted with flashes of wildflowers. But, I also love the Fall with deep reds, tans in the grass and sunflower yellows and Winter with frosty whites and wonderland snows.    Yet, what I love most about the Hills is it is a place to encounter silence. It is where in silence and solitude, surrounded by nature, I am most aware of feeling that I am alive and least aware of time.

I walk in powdery snow in the mountains, among flakes floating out of the trees and sparkling in the sunlight, on a path with no tracks yet, except now mine. I see mountain peaks white with fresh fallen snow as I stand in high Colorado listening to the wind whisper in the pine, maybe that explains why I feel so fine, frost on the grass, snow on the pass, buck in the brush, feel no rush, there’s bears in the cottonwoods, feels so good, and as I stand by a clear flowing stream listening to a hawk scream in the sky maybe that is why there is now a tear in my eye.

Sitting in solitude in a light rain, with a chill in the wind, finally, again, across an old prairie field, to the base of a hill, to be still, down an old abandoned road in a forest,  to a seat on a stone, to be alone,  to be in the wonder of Aspen glow, to be where no one-else is going to go, into a nature wild, with trees and rocks and the sky true blue, where everything is old, and where everything, always, feels new

Sitting in silent solitude by a noisy gurgling stream flowing with white water through  reddish rocks spotted with light green lichen, bordered by tall green grass and wildflower stems backed by tall coniferous trees. I recline in shade on soft fir needle covered earth, breathing a cool breeze in which the grass sways this way and that, as go my thoughts, light and airy.  Trying not to think is the goal here, just observe and listen, seeing seedheads have formed, feeling the life in breathing, breathing with the plants, listening to the water and birds, watching birds fly past. The breeze cools my face as the sun lights up yellow blooms across the stream, one could dream here.