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.