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Into a wild, on a pine cone covered trail, early, when the colors are still pale, the canyon long, feeling strong, to run, a day begun, to hike, into the trees I so like, greeting a spruce blue, how are you, a swarm of firs, my heart stirs, doing some thing, while doing no thing, a stretch up and over a rock, no talk, stop, stand, blink, no think, focus on what I feel, in the quiet of the real

Looking for Aspen in the mountain air, standing on the edge of Fall, standing on the edge of Aspen, standing on the edge of mountains that next will be full of snow, but we are always at the edge, always in between life and death, always in between past and the future, always there’s something waiting around the next bend, we are always standing or sitting in the moment, yet, aware time is moving, we can’t stay there, still, for this moment, I stand in the Aspen and at the mountains stare

In the stillness, in the Spring, by the snow, that has yet to go, in the quiet sitting, accepting what life is permitting, looking out at valleys rolling green, silent and serene, watching a deer bound up a ridgetop, almost making my heart stop, high peaked mountains in the distance, speak to me with insistence, saying breathe it in, join in, ride the earth’s spin, forget your clock, lean back against a rock, feel the steadiness in the trees, enjoy the air in the breeze

I’ve come to a stop spot, in early October, with the sound of cricket song, through bluestem seedheads waving in a breeze, through sunlight shining in the colors of the grasses and leaves of shrubs, through aspenglow, to the last blooms of the season, to asters, to a moment, to a stop, to a feeling of being alive, to a gentility, serenity, a place to sit, to look, to listen, to feel hidden, to an awareness I am breathing, to this one place, I am here

Walking through bluestem in August. Sitting in tall grass in high prairie hills. Sun turning hot. But it’s almost September. Away from the road. Away from the clamor. Alone in the splendor. Crickets are in song. I am where I feel I belong. I came here on purpose but with no agenda. Just knowing where I wanted to be. I feel a sigh of relief breathe out of my body. I’m looking at a crooked stem of tall bluestem and it fascinates me though I don’t know why, maybe because it’s not like all the others. Colors of the stems draw my attention, a mix of red and purple amongst the green. There are sprigs of sage going to seed and the brightness of blazing star and yellow globes of broomweed. And there’s little bluestem and blue grama too. Grassy valleys unfold before me, and behind me rise mountains aglow in the rising sun. 

Nature is a kind of infinity. It stretches back in time into the distant past and on into future tomorrows, stars are born, stars die, over eons and eons of time nature goes on even after solar systems are gone. So, in that context what is one human life lived on earth? Is it like a flower that blooms and then fades? What I know is when out in nature I don’t look to find myself, or who I am though I have heard some say that is what they do. I know it is a common thing for humans to search to find who they are. But I have realized, at least when I am out in nature and alone, for me anyway, it doesn’t matter who I am. In that realization there is a letting go of the human search for who I am, and in that letting go I find freedom. I find peace and solace.

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