Author: wapatangawilds

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

Observe and listen, blackbirds and cottonwood, cattails glisten,

leaves flutter in the breeze, light sparkles in the trees,

where I’ve come to enjoy the still, sit on a grassy hill,

it’s like there is color in the air, all around and everywhere, 

from valley shadow to hilltop willow, 

as far as can be seen, yellows and orange in the green

A moose reclines in a forest in a high mountain Spring, Marsh Marigolds in bloom, no hurry, no rush, no timetable, life with no agenda, following the seasons, not searching for reasons, flowing like the melting mountain snow, being what it is, no more, I sit and watch, a lesson to be learned lies waiting there, I see it, I hear it, will I receive it? Can I believe it, for me?

Mountain pines and paper birches, bubbling trickling stream, bounded on both sides by the last of winter’s un-melted snow, sunlight dapples the mountain forest floor, cooling breeze seems to sing a calming song, nature’s abundant life surrounds me, I sit on the earth, on a spot warmed by the sun, the hemlock’s soft green and flowing branches and tall thin trunks of paper birches, with seeming grace speak to my whole being, saying breathe deep, breathe slow, in this place, all alone, feel safe, be at peace. 

Flat rocks and ripples in a stream, prairie winds and willows, cottonwoods and creeks, butterflies and blooms, sunflowers and snakeroot white, September afternoon fades into September moon tranquility, crickets singing, covering clouds come, early morning raindrops, few, fat, in dark air, distant lightning flashes light the sky, treading on time in my mind, how long til I turn home, before September storm, thunder rumbling, cracking, rushes in

First of Fall and sunflower petals will soon be fading fast, along with flutterbys, if not already past, today is hot, tomorrow’s hope is it will not, storms over aging blooms and cottonwoods singing will bring a cooling wind, perhaps then, a morning chill, a desire to sit still, embrace the shift of seasons in the air, a longed for end to summer’s long stare