Aigrettes And in that placeof windswept wonderbetween dreamand longing there are wings ofwhiteness. So pure and holyuntouched bythis world. Dressedin grace plumage soft asdevotion. The eyeof […]

The hummingbird moth arrives on our door. He stays–for days–as if a sentinel. I come to depend on his presence. A yellow bird dances in flight with a butterfly until two become one. A blonde fox leaps through the tall grass focused on her pressing schedule.

I’m here I’ve arrived in rural Minnesota a small town where The Dairy Queen is the threshold guardian along Highway 75. I admit, when all the world seems too much for me I seek refuge with her in a vanilla swirl dipped in nut crunch. My camper rocks back and forth in the wind and sometimes squeaks like a mattress in a cheap motel. I’m sure this will keep the neighbors wondering about the woman from California in the Gypsy Caravan.

Fresh air. That’s what it comes down to. My mother dwells on the threshold between life and death. I enter her room she lifts her bone-thin arm and tired finger. She points to the window, “Let’s have some fresh air, shall we?” At another time she’d say, “Let’s have a cup of tea go out for ice cream or go for a swim.” Now: “Let’s have some fresh air.”

I met two feral kittens at death’s door. So ill they could barely stand. Eyes filled with infection lungs rattling. Now a year old they follow me through the rooms of the house as if I am their sun. As if our home is their earth. They circle around me hoping to bask in my warmth.

I told Larry I fly-fish. I’ve fly-fished most of the Western United States. I have my favorite spots. Well… all of them, really. There is the input at Emigrant by Chico Hot Springs in Montana. Floating the Yellowstone is heaven. There’s a good fly shop in Big Sky. Sisters, Oregon is lovely. How about Hailey, Idaho? Almost lost my shoes in the mud at Silver Creek. Nearly lost my rod too.

Last night the winds arrived. Gusts of 75 miles per hour. My dog and I huddled in the basement shivering like two squirrels in a nest. Today on my walk I see shingles scattered across the road. Do they know so many are missing? I look up. Half my neighbor’s roof is gone. Simply gone. Our golf course was hit hard. A large ancient pine lies on its side tumbled in the war.

Winter has arrived. The nights navy blue aky is lit by the full moon. Clouds quickly move across the prairie gathering separating the shapes morphing like time lapsed photography: a seahorse a carriage a crown. The winds announce the season’s change with their cold Arctic chill. They blow relentlessly across the open land.

That’s what I needed. Really needed. I needed to curl-up in the hollow of an old tree like some wild animal a squirrel a fox maybe a badger. Circle round and round rearrange the dirt prepare my bed make my own warmth. I needed to fall into a deep winter slumber. A hibernation. That’s what I needed. To be still and silent and find my way back to myself.