The beautiful security of the seasonal changes go by, bringing a new but familiar perspective to this enchanted land. The landscape and the sky above appear autumnal, if you have been watching throughout the year. The sun is moving into the southern sky and the shadows grow longer. Autumn seems to bring along quicker, more dramatic changes than other seasons.   My second year here in the ranch house, and so I recognize the patterns.  

     

  

        The first real winter storm invaded the region yesterday and left a few inches of snow in its wake. The sky is clearing behind the weather: tonight will be cold. The first snowfall of the season brings about abrupt change, even when predicted. Just the variance of the light coming through the windows shifts my perspective of the year. The dogs were ecstatic at this morning’s snow-dance. Jo the new dog seemed especially surprised.

      

    Uninterrupted, uncommitted days at the ranch-house are lately hard to come by and so are really appreciated and enjoyed. A day full of absolutely whatever happens is precious. A local, out-the-door walk has become  a day-off tradition and a sort of mental floss. Recently along the hillside, far places and old friends came into mind. Farther into the junipers I found evidence of an ancient hunter that in another time walked soft across the hillside, among the junipers.

     

 

    On a trek in Arizona a few weeks ago, a long-time deer-hunter friend guided me into a site he had discovered. On several acres of sandy mesa-top were low, eroded mounds surrounded by incredible amounts of flint in various stages of work. The nodules are still washing out of one of the strata making up the mesa. The place was very old, even for that part of Arizona.

      

    Sometimes way too early in the morning you wake up; using all your senses to figure out why. Most of the stars have faded, whether by high clouds or first high altitude light is not clear. Sleep won’t return but it’s still dark. Reheat the coffee and make a plan; rebuild the fire or light up the Svea stove? No hurry; the day happens on its own time. The fire-building ritual opens paths across millennia. The back-trail through my time shows up  clear in the pre-dawn darkness: a collection of images, sensations, and visions; souvenirs of the journey. Before I become lost in the wilderness, the coffee pot boils and calls me back. I know the way and will probably go there again. Hot coffee and a soft sunrise glow in the east remind me of where I am.

    

 

     We still dance, mostly in the morning, and sometimes in the afternoon if I have been away. This morning we danced a brand new dance in the snow. Some mornings we dance in the light of sunrise. On my mornings with a schedule, the dance centers around my attempts to put on my shoes. Boots and socks walk away, carried by one dog or another. The third one runs interference. The dogs tell me that the best days start with a laugh. And so we do.

     

 

          

 

  A silent sunset, painted with the songs of Saint Margarita, the Barefooted.