graywanderings

It doesn’t happen overnight, but it feels like it does. Blue sky and sunshine, rippling water, warmth for walking and running freely one day. And then it all comes to an icy halt the next. Reeds and rushes pushed down by snow. Trees fully flocked over a frozen lake where geese and ducks and gulls try to find a place to bathe and feed. The light changes from Autumn’s amber and golden hues, to the white and dull yellow light of winter’s early sunsets; the sun droops lower in the sky than you remember, disappearing sooner as well.  Even the full moon, super as it might be, feels cold, and not in a bashful way. Like winter, it’s unapologetic for the glow it casts on the frozen world below. Ice season is upon us, time to  soak it in.

To all those that have seen the opportunity in open space conservation, I am grateful. A stretch of forest, a large field, a patch of desert, pond, or wetland, a small rocky cliff, a hill with a view. It may not be the splendor of Yosemite, the drama of the Grand Canyon, or the excitement of Yellowstone. Something with some ancient dirt, fresh air, and a look to the sky will do. Having taken the time to keep this part of the earth free from concrete, the excavator claw, or the waste of a big box store, was no tiny feat. And for this foresight and stewardship and care, I thank you.

A lone Juniper, especially out here in foothill Red Rock country, always catches my attention. And if I forget to look up, there’s usually a flock of Robins, or a Townsend’s Solitaire, or a flutter of chickadees and juncos and flickers to remind me. Today, it’s all of them There’s a Christmas tree quality to these trees, sandstone style, ornamented with berries, and sometimes flocked with a morning snow. But as we know, reminded time and time again in nature,  everyday is a gift.

Water, wrestling away the loud hum of humanity just over the bank. Factory trains truck stuff in every direction, blaring horns enmass in the cacophony of the interstate. Dogs barking, people barking, phones barking, the whole world barking. Small planes, jet planes, all planes making their way through galactic time and space, to just another place with the same hum.

And yet water, eroding away this channel through rock and wood for a millenia, meanders through miles, unconcerned. Water.

Along a boulevard in Arvada and an irrigation ditch, a robust riparian channel cuts a path. Cast in the glow of autumn light, the day emerges into dusk. 15 species of birds, sing, call, cackle and warn, unbeknownst to the traffic roaring down the road. For that great moment in the day, when I am simply awed into simple reflection, I finally take notice.