First Breath of Winter

This morning held the first breath of winter here in our valley. Mt. Timpanogoos on the north end of our valley was hidden by low-slung, dark blue clouds. The mountains to the east were been swathed in white clouds backlit by the morning sun. These clouds poured out of the canyons as though they were the exhaled breath of the mountains. The peaks were covered with a dusting of snow--which I hope means we'll have a good winter for water and that our drought here may be ending. The mountains to the south were bare of clouds, covered by sunlight. It's days like this when I remember how I lost my heart to the landscape of the American West.

Tonight I found more pears laying in the wet grass under the tree. What is the tipping point? The point at which the fruit is soft enough, the sugar content at the right sweetness, the density of the fruit--what is it, short of wind, that makes the fruit drop on a calm day from the tree? Is that a mystery that Persephone knows?

When does she cross over into the world of the dead to join her husband? Is it on the night of Samhain--Halloween--when the veil between the dead and the living thins, even parts? Or does she linger among the pines, with holly in her hair?

I feel like I'm waking up from the long dry hot summer to the changing of autumn--it's the seasonal changes that have me observing details again as a writer and poet needs to. I've been in a numb, writer's block state this summer, on a treadmill with my novel. Things are moving again.

I have been surprised at how blind I'd become. Sunday down at the barn, Tasha asked me to help her tie together two sections of the metal corral. "The paddock horses are not where they are supposed to be," she said.

I looked out beyond the row of stalls to the paddock. I saw a few horses. Nothing looked out of place. "What do you mean?" I asked.

Tasha looked at me funny. "Look over there right in front of you," she said.

When I'd looked out into the paddock, I'd ignored the scene right in front of me. The corral segment that separated a stall from the paddock had been knocked open. Someone had bitten through the twine that kept the segments tied together. So in this stall stood most of the paddock horses, milling around the little old white Welsh pony who was boarding for just a few days. They wanted to pick on him. Tasha shooed the herd away, and gently coaxed the pony back into the stall. I helped her move the segments back together and then she tied them up with new twine.

Later I chatted with her as she sprayed fly repellent on her mare, Dream. I commented that the flies seemed worse than usual this week. Tasha said, "The barn swallows have gone south. They're not around to pick off the flies."

It was then I noticed how quiet the barn was. No bird song. No chittering. No swallows darting among the eaves of the barn. They have flown to Mexico or South America.

I decided in that moment I needed to awaken. Monday morning I waited in the turning lane on University Parkway for a red light to turn green so I could drive into UVU campus. In a few seconds, the rim of the sun appeared over Y Mount. It seemed to burst over the peaks as the earth turned, casting a pink glow onto cliffs. Joy and awe warmed through my blood.

When I was young, I could hike among those cliffs and watch sunrise, watch clouds roll in below me. Perhaps next year I'll be able to do that again. Who wants to come with me?