The ridge rises ahead A dark green wave. Bishop Pine Green. And over the other side, unseen, the vast ocean shines. The sky is transparent blue, backlit with white gold. From deep in the canyon, the sound of the little creek. Eagles soar. Woodland birds, several a spectacular blue, abound, flitting, swooping, alighting, navigating the thick tangle of branches with extraordinary precision. The lichen wrapped and festooned trees are old, sodden and some have not withstood the fury of last night’s storm.
After days of winter storm, I looked up — the full moon, silver bright. Poured into my heart. Gratitude.
The storm has brought the trees down over the road. Electrical power gone. Long hours of darkness. The eventual return of the light is magical.
The fire shifts, glows, logs collapse into ruby jewels, which pulsate and sparkle. The smell of matches! “Keep an eye on the fire.” “Put another log on the fire”. The high winds make it hard to get the fire to “draw” in the morning. Raking the embers. A roaring blaze. All these phrases having more meaning now. Known because warmth the cooking of food is dependent on its flourishing.
In the rooms, shapes still can still be perceived. Half light.
Before dawn, more drenching rain. The land is sodden,
Winter storm, power cut. Plans cut. Back to the darkness, The womb. The birth-place.
Even in the dark, something shines though, from the Inner Worlds.
Twilight. Dusk. Space, form and colour collapse into night.
Incubation.. Birthing, Release. Benevolence.