Sunday, April 3, 2011


a western meadowlark, yellow chest shining, it's cheerful song dancing across the road.
a prairie falcon, sitting atop a narrow, bare tree, seemingly immobile, perusing its vast, austere estate.
a yellowed, weathered rib cage, likely cervidae, off to the right side of the road, shocking me by its abrupt appearance: how long has this been there?
wind pushing steadily from the south, the west, determined, undeterred from its path.
the reservoir, frozen still but losing its battle with spring, ice pulling back from shorelines, fissures opening across its expanse, surface rough and uneven.
early april in dell canyon, the hillsides having released their snow, the life beneath ground not yet showing itself, not yet sending up shoots and blades of green.
perfect riding weather, temperature in the upper fifties, cool enough to remind me it's still early in the season, warm enough to allow capris and fingerless gloves and a head that's bare under my helmet.
though I love the falcon and the chipper song of the meadowlark, it is the fissures in the frozen lid of the reservoir that capture my interest, my soul. they decorate the top, one here, another there, no rhyme or rhythm to their placements, and the glance into the depths below that they allow is simultaneously flirtatious and dangerously seductive.
a dash of dark amidst the eighteen shades of white that compose the textured glacial surface, each fissure is an opportunity, a space between, a place to initiate change.
leonard cohen would tell us a fissure is where the light comes in; I first see the fissures here as exciting, a sign of progress. I liken this to personal growth: we cannot move forward until a crack appears and we widen it, splitting it apart and letting what's new and fresh, different, better, make itself known.

today I saw the season's first earthworms, plump and curled, brought to the pavement by last night's rain and snow.
the seasons change, often slowly but always, inevitably. ice melts, snow fades, plants send forth new shoots.
fissures happen.
things change.
we grow.
and we eventually find ways to let the light come in.

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