Georgia wanted out to eat grass, this morning, although it is now nearly all gold, like wheat in the fields. Silverlock has gone back to Forever Home Rescue to be prepared for a new life. We are quiet without her, like a winter following spring.
Yesterday, I was reminded of one of the joys of winter, that keep me alive: a flashing brown bird swept out from a pile of brown, fallen leaves, to take flight across the yard. The zinnia stand where they grew, full of possibilities and seeds. Only half of the hydrangea is alive. The half that is covered by the portico, and leans against the house. I don't forget the lavender, the evergreen, now greener against the silver leaves around it, the last of its purple blooms still stand.
The wood behind the house is red, with fall leaves, dark burgundy. The first line of trees marches toward the silver and gold field beyond. I have seen no signs of the bear for over a week, and perhaps she hibernates now. Dark black, curled up into a lighter dark of a cave.
I can't talk about my recent experiences yet. The memory is too tender to touch, like the first greening of a fruit tree, in the Spring. To disturb it now would be like frost. And like the new leaf buds, one disorder sprang open, to touch the next and the next and the next...
And, as if one limb caught blight, the whole tree stood close to dying. If the tree could walk, and who are we to say they can't, it would isolate itself from the wood, as I have isolated myself even from these pages. But now, the presence in the forest has tempered the blight, so that the tree may move back into the sunlight, and the sere winds, under the silver clouded sky. I am passed everything but standing in the sun, and feeling the winds that I love, as a mountain dweller.