It occurs to me that much of what I
observe, I have recorded already. Each year I look for the right words to
describe the colors of a Great Plains’ sunrise, not just the color, but also
the way color takes the sky. And each year I marvel at the the tone and character
of bird songs. The meadowlark melody lines alone could fill pages. Antelope
sightings produce a lexicon of descriptors. What is the point of these efforts,
of these repetitions? I know the meditative quality of observation. The calm
and total engagement it produces in me. But is there something more? Just
before I sat down to write today, five antelope stepped up to the fence across
the road one after another. They’ve looked so majestic in the distance with
their white/tan patterning and proud-pronged horns, but up close I could see
the wildness in their hair. Is my descriptive habit part of developing keener
observation?
