The brightest morning.
Fallen pine. Dry, pinkish sage. Some with streaks of mustard. Or deep, dry purple.
A single mule deer sips from shallow creeks, weary of my every step.
So I have to learn to walk again.
Down by the river weeds, my reflection becomes shadowy with white water carrying crimson leaves, in and out of the low gully.
Nothing to do but walk with hands clasped behind you. Nothing to do but hum something familiar. Nothing to do at all but realize this forest is ever …
Winter will be here suddenly soon. The pines will dry and sway in the wind and silent snow. I might need to split some extra wood this time around, of course, only to make the fire last until the morning dew cools off the land.
— Dispatch from the Black-Footed Ferret, 10/2/11