The twisted pines bend over bowing to the early winter winds whistling down through the canyon. The big bear begins to wrap himself in his cozy den, while my neighbors the magpies and the chickadees sing melodiously from their perches high overhead.
Sitting on a rock with my back leaned up against an ancient gnarled black jack pine, my old trooper bag slung around one of its branches, and with my knees jutting upwards to my chin, I take a long, deep draw from my tobacco pipe, the wispy, white smoke makes its way upwards joining the wafered clouds frozen overhead in solitude. My head is arched upwards and my drowsy eyes fix their gaze southward towards Mt Evans.
Lines of lesser ridges snake outwards like fingers stretching towards the Divide with dirt roads meandering between them bringing with them the white man's ruinous civilization.
Thoughts of the Creator begin to settle over the mountains ringing York Gulch as my eyes scan the valley below. A vague sadness blankets this desolate, wild land whilst a cold silence loudly pierces the dry air.
Who knows...maybe the very rocks and trees themselves, this land of ancient memories laments the now long vanished Arapaho who hunted the wild turkey that once peppered this valley?
As the day wanes, the quiet sun drops lower and lower with trickles of orange, yellow and red washing over the ever darkening green valley below me.
Grabbing my walking stick I rise up, setting my face eastward down below to Idaho Springs whereupon entering town I hear the people begin to whisper, "Behold the dreamer cometh. Come now therefore and let us slay him..."
© 2015
BR Schoenbein
October 28, 2015-Wednesday
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