Brewed a strong glass of Himalayan tea for a dawn sojourn up the ridge in my backyard this morning. No human tracks of course but no conejo tracks either—they usually beat me to it.
Maybe the Tibetans or Nepalese or the Eskimo have a word for the cool, silent, deep centered peace of a winter sunrise hike at altitude, but there’s none in English, nor American.
Just begun reading Heaven’s Breath: A Natural History Of The Wind by Lyall Watson, reissued by the inimitable New York Review Book imprint. Is beyond enthralling, and not just because am a cardinal air sign. Perhaps will find a kind of grammar in there.
Took the long way home through a deep, twisting arroyo dense with newly fallen snow, wondering where the coyotes who’ve been howling like mad of late take shelter.
Now wholly conditioned for a day of cooking, guitar, writing and another trek come sundown.
La ‘Rona is what you make of it.
Carpe Diem
❏