High Country Sky

This poem reflects my thoughts last Saturday morning on my walk (2.28.26). As I was experiencing it, I made mental notes then put those notes in my phone for later. I knew I had the urge to write about it, but was definitely feeling like it was a poem. Once I started it all just flowed. That was cool. It took about a half hour total, so I felt quite accomplished. Funny how stuff gets in my head and HAS to come out like Jade nosing my leg to take her out for a walk...which is where this all started... 

HIGH COUNTRY  SKY

I walked out in the morning with my dog at my side,

The sun dazzled and teased me and said, “Look at this sky!”

This is the color of blue that paint chips wish to be;

The sparkling clear blue of a baby’s eyes.

“Look at these clouds!” Prompts the sun again.

Made for a storybook where a child sees animal shapes;

Perfectly serene, gentle, just happily passing the time,

And sun is clearly relishing in its contribution to this enchanting scene.

I sank deeper into awareness…

The Hyacinth that greeted me when I left my door,

So fragrant and deceptively alive despite their plastic dollar store appearance.

Those daffodils that just shed an inch of snow,

Still standing, defiant and proud.

This country road with a small stream trickling,

Frogs calling back and forth in their secret code.

A hawk screeching as it flies from its nest and another answers it.

“Idyllic”, I think is the unfortunate cliche to describe it,

But I can think of no better descriptor.

Again the sky and clouds capture my attention and the sun calls me back:

“Remember…?”

It seems it’s a memory I can’t quite touch.

“This is the kind of sky you see in the high country”, it hints,

“You’ve seen it before; you’ve experienced its magic before.”

It’s there, the feeling this sky brings to my conscience;

More than once, and always a perfect day in nature:

With Dad, wading up Nelson Crick fishing for Brook trout, 

Eating salami sandwiches and ripe peaches at a fire lookout.

With Merl, the smell of dusty roads and two-stroke fuel,

Vistas hastily viewed from the oval opening of a motorcycle helmet.

At Greyhorse Valley, yes, this one stands out --

He and I off-roading in the pickup to a primitive campsite; 

Gorgeous and remote, surrounded by true wilderness. 

I’ve got a firm hold on that memory now, it’s all there;

My senses feel that day and it captivates me for just a breath.

A brief stint of time travel that touches my grateful heart.

Idyllic…that word again, but how else do you describe days like these?

That sky! Those clouds! And the sun so pleased with itself!

Merl and I at Greyhorse. A can of chili beans heating on the fire. 6.26.1983