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I’m just a man knocking on seventy, shoeing in a snowy scene, making the most of mountain majesty, walking in a cottonwood wonder, by a rapid river, in a wildflower field, pondering a prairie’s power, seeing sites that speak to my spirit, it has me thinking about where I’ve been, where I’m going with whatever time I got left, I’m just an old man seeking seventy, seems like I can take all the years in the palm of my hand and just blow them away, some a hard one, some of them fun, all of them done

I love when the Aspen goes to ground, when the Aspen leaves fall, I see leaves yellow twirling in a breezy air, sometimes they are all around, the breeze takes a pause, and so do I, I sit back, lean against an Aspen, a cloud blocks the sun, I feel a chill, I sit still, the air moves, the leaves shake, clatter, a coyote saunters by, nose to the sky, a solitary leaf drops, I hear birds chatter, tall pines crowd a nearby  ridge, I take it all in, pondering the colors, the change that’s occurring, the change that’s coming, last daisies in bloom, I want to come back here when the snow lies deep, I hope I can, but I don’t want to assume, most of all, I hope I  will be able to recall how I feel when Aspen goes to ground, when Aspen leaves fall  

Spring arrives, the mountains shrug it off, I do too, there is still snow along the stream, something to save for a dream, aspen bark is soft in color, evergreen fir soft in needle, and then the sky darkens and the snow begins to fall, fine flakes and thick, feels like a shroud, and I realize as long the wind blows, as long as the sky snows, I will want to be up here, free.

Snow is in the wind, I feel anticipation grow, not today, not tomorrow, but in three days to the mountains I will go, and when I get there, in that first moment when I first see flakes swirling in the air, a shiver of relief will move through me, from head to toe, that’s why I go, and to wander alone in the wonder, a child of the wild, following the call, loving it all.

Sitting in a March snow, on pine needles, fine granular wet flakes sifting straight down, feels cold, damp, and I love it, leaning against a pine trunk, nothing moving except the falling flakes, a crow calls out across the mountain valley, hidden in a fog, the silence is important to me, the solitude has value to me, it connects me to who I am, who I have always been, it brings me that awareness that I am alive, breathing, at the end of life I don’t know if it will matter, but it matters to me now.

Past Boulder falls, mountain skyin, flakes flyin, remembering where I took a fall, yet the mountains still call, to Caribou nature Ranch, to a Ponderosa pine branch, to a spruce and maybe a moose, to Aspen and fir, always brings a stir, with time just to sit, for a bit, all alone in a wild

It’s a January morning, season not yet shifting, snow is still sifting, it falls beautifully, past branches of evergreen, as I snowshoe into a forest serene, just a walk in the woods, away from the shoulds, but now the snow fall has stopped, and so have I, feels like my world takes a sigh, where I sit tracks tell me an elk has passed by, a small snow-covered evergreen brings me a sense of calm, knowing it will likely be here long after I am gone, brings a comfort as I rise and walk on.

It was in the dark of December, a time I remember, when the days had turned longer for certain, outside the window curtain, snow was falling in the night, in the morning I walked in the dark of dawn, out of the night into the light, out of the high plains and foothills up onto the mountain, where there was a fox for me to see, both of us sitting in the snow, and before I saw it go,  falling flakes surrounded us, whitening the ground, and in the solitude, quiet was the only sound.

In my years I have been to mountain high and under prairie sky, I have gone into the snow and where the wildflowers grow since I was a child, and still it calls, I want to be in the wild, just let me go, just let me disappear into a snow, into the swirl, into the twirl, up a trail, because nature, it’s beauty, it’s solitude, it’s connection to life, still thrills, it still calls. 

Mountain bluebirds perched on mullein stalks, voices at the moment mute, as I sit in the foothills, in the land of the Arapaho and Ute, aware I am a visitor, I come and go, I live down below, I watch a woodpecker arrive to perch on another mullein stalk, it lives in this wild preserve where I have come to sit and walk, where sunlight glints on the tops of grasses and tall Ponderosas line paths that lead to mountain passes, but I am here just to observe and listen, to be alive, just to be present.