Before the Freeze

Within the valley curve, where wind pours fine dust down its length, the day blossoms with storm. But I feel the shaping of the land by the wind, and see the signatures of Winter drawn upon the ice and snow. But the deeper things are yet to come. Water still pours from distant places, the river still is open, and the ground barely touched by snow. Rather than bitter cold, the inner warmth that hides in the shelter of the hills, feeds the channels that continue to the sea.

I walk out into the middle of the river plain, exposing my face more to the blast of wind and dust. Like a fragile craft on a stormy sea, I angle away from the wind, with sails unfurled but not heading into the full force. Coming back I have the wind to my back. Now I can see the scene ahead-- exposed bars and twisted remains of trees, grey snow in hollows and dead channels-- and study the designs of colored stones and shifting lines written by the wind.

The open window of sunlight shrinks and moves up the Matanuska Valley, up into the headlands of the Talkeetna Mountains, where the glimmering sunlight casts a brief glow over the silent lands now shut up by snow. More dust blurs the outlines of the valley and the short day fades. However, the rivers move in turquoise lines, following the course laid down by the Glacial melting long ago, still melting even in this cold. Come Spring, when the light and warmth grow, I'll be here to cross the river, and hear the voices of awakening.

Frozen Light

This biting cold

Sharp teeth nipping at my hand,

Where sunlight brings no warmth,

As though the air and breath

No longer share or touch--

A shattered Crystal Mirror

And frozen light, when only ice

Settles on the land.

Solitude

I stop and reconsider, whether to go ahead or change course by way of another route. Here in the deep shadows of this ravine, the chill seems to suggest going ahead, moving upwards to the sheltered south-side slope, where the warm sunlight breathes. For up there, the mountain's face is bathed in a yellow glow, still unclothed of snow, and its raptured beauty holds me tight. But I see the faint outlines of a trail which wanders along the cliffs, high above the sunless bottom where now I stand. So, I choose another way instead, noting that the trail has been traveled too many times by other minds, filled with too many memories of crowds and city noise.

I prefer more rugged ground to climb, something that makes me feel more alive, off the trail and into the woodland solitude. Another story waits to be told. And by shaking the fog of sleep from my brain, the old smooth trail is left behind. So, I search for spaces and holes in the brush and dead fall barricades. Above are the steep slopes that stretch across the upper view. But first, the fallen trees become my bridges to the places just below; while the fields of devils club are spaces where secret paths are found; then, with some relief, I reach the blue-grey rocks, which are roads that lead to the high cliff dreams.

And now, on the edge of this bench, high above the bay, I look out far along the vastness of the world with its crystalline hue, exposed to the wind that blurs the view. I am like the tree, solitary and free, that has rooted itself deeply in the rock, not to be shaken by the storms that come at this time of year. We both will survive.

For in this place, within this solitude of thought, I hear and see and know the nameless, unconditioned freedom that this moment brings. I feel what children feel in their playful episodes: not measuring joy or following outworn truths--but singing new songs and enjoying the gift of life, never looking back or worrying for things to come.