All morning I’m memorizing every detail. The sky flooded with color, the breaking of day. The clouds forming in fire and then slipping back into themselves.
I want to remember the sound of the pika, the way the rocks and dirt and sand feel under my boots. There is the way the red huckleberry glows from the inside, like a smoldering fire.
All kinds of yes.
I smell the smoke and see the layers of haze woven into the skyline and across nameless peaks in the distance.
I’m committing to memory the grace and speed with which the Cascade silver fox moves through the meadow. Tail fluffed, muscles fluid.
I’m thinking of tree bark and the smell of sub-alpine fir. If I rub a sprig of it between my thumb and index finger, the fragrance of it lingers. A dab behind the ear is better than anything that comes in glass. This .. this is alive. I breathe deep and it fills my lungs.
I know what it is to see color drain from the sky. And I know, too, what it is to see it bleed back into the landscape and be transformed. It’s never barren here, just asleep. A season of rest.
And a season of rust too. Orange, yellow and gold. Even dying things are beautiful here.
I want to remember this breeze as it catches my hair .. my steady breathing, my quickening heart.
The chipmunks. The deer. The birds.
The benchmark. And broken things.
Time to say goodbye for now.
Deep bow to Sunrise.
Until next summer, rest easy.