Storm Curtains

The sky was tossed in waves of gray; a curtain for locking in the light, while a tiny sun sailed forth into the center of the storm. The mountains below seemed so small, and deep within the valley mouth, another front was coming through. All about the wind swirled around, carrying sound and shout through the air of afternoon. And along the ledges of the cliffs, I crouched, battered by the wind from the south , and pressed into the rock while descending there. Yet the terrible beauty that buffeted me, rolling and tossing like an angry sea, made me feel most alive. I looked up once more and glanced through the window of the sky, where a space of soft rays blended with the sun. The curtains of cloud folded around the light; a hungry mouth shutting like a giant clam around the earth and sky.

Spin Drift on the Ridges

I laid back on the slopes, listening to the gusting winds overhead, feeling the cold touch that bent the dry grasses about me. I closed my eyes and heard the circling and tossing going on, while the clouds zig-zagged in furrowed waves. Then, I opened my eyes to the movements across the bay. There, the sun slowly glided into the fuzzy edges of a cloud, where the disk of the sun appeared, now unveiled like the face of God.

As my glance followed this silvery track of light, I noticed the wind on the ridges below the cloud. Here, the spin drift of wind and snow resulted in plumes of light streaming up along the various levels leading to a pass below the mountain's crest--each like a flame burning a visual trail upwards to the sky. The wind would circle in to tease the exposed tops, then would vanish into dormant silence, but soon would return again as puffs of air-born light whirling in the air.

The Avalanche

A strange February Warmth, not like the usual weather of snow drifts, of freeze, or of sharpness in the air. The warmth is disarming and dangerous to those who can't read the signs on the hills. I hear the artillery sounding against the tops of the mountains to the south, where the snow is being pounded and loosened from it's precarious hold. Here the wetness has gathered in the thick top layer, lying on top of another layer beneath. All along the bay the south side slopes are groaning with movement today-- too warm and quiet and tense, like a coiled force ready to strike. So, I stay away from the steeper areas, going instead to the protected cliff tops and ridges, keeping my ears open to sounds from the south. Tomorrow someone will die over there, buried in the crush by tons of avalanche. In those last moments, perhaps in disbelief, while the sound and it's roar buries him, knows immediately what we can only guess, entombed under the glare of a impersonal sun. This day has a dangerous look.

The Alley Way at Dawn

Dawn was coming to the Alley, as night was slipping away--a divide between two tides, where still the mind could find a place to hide; the moon was sinking through the leafless woods just above the houses, but the streetlights still had the power to illuminate in rows along the icy road. But now a hurried feeling was in the air-- a fading of the islands of pooled light,once cradled in the arms of night, now just a blending with all the rest, quickly hidden by the day.

Waiting for deliverance

The somber tones of the forest, hard-edged like claws, bids me to walk more carefully with each step. By following the well-worn routes only invites bruises. So I avoid the icy places, finding instead the grainy crusted snow off trail. No one is there to follow, only quiet hollows and ledges, drained of snow. The mood here is like a water color wash in fog, where a mystic thought might suddenly intrude. I am no longer dissecting the reasons behind the delicate dance of change--just letting the scenery tell it's own story in it's own time. By forcing the mood only results in carving up the experience, killing the original impulse of joy. Therefore, each traveler takes away only what is given by chance; perhaps with a gift of awakening: feeling the way, expecting wonder and surprise, waiting the moment's unfolding-- for the experience has an uncanny substance of magic to it, whereby the deeper meanings can populate the mind. I wait for deliverance from a hidden source, while always traveling with an open heart.

The loss of Self

The silent merging of form and light brings a sleep of detail, giving birth to gentle forgetfulness. Wandering here in such a place brings a fullness to it all: The vision shrinks, while the imagination explodes out like a inner sun, through the half-closed shutters of day. I embrace it like a beam of light, releasing all thought of coming or going, adding or taking away--simply being the breath that embraces the fog.