Author: wapatangawilds

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. 

September morning wind, sometimes warm,

sometimes chill, blows into my life,

that like the wind, never stays the same,

and I think I feel something in the wind,

I feel a change, I feel it in me,

I see it in the stare of a bear

First falling snow, bull moose, high mountain lake, Mayas pond, feeling a chill, suddenly winter, sitting still, alone, so far from the lands I went to so long ago, wishing I could be here, for first flakes falling, now here I am watching them fall, and my feeling is, though I feared regret, I am glad I followed that other call, even knowing being here now, was never close to certain