6.08.2014...

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?

6.07.2014...

I slept till nearly seven after a day in the garden: weeding the lilac bed, beginning to trim the fallen cottonwood, and cutting branches into firewood lengths. It is good to spend time with the tree, getting to know her shape and details, starting to make choices as to what stays in tact and what is removed. A tree is a complex thing, as much defined by its interstices as its solid branches.

6.06.2014...

At first light, I could only see as far as the neighbor’s pole barn. The river trees appeared shortly, but then were concealed again. The east field was obscured almost completely, and then the trees at its far edge took shape again. Fog pulsed in slow breaths, a hulking phenomenon not so familiar in this area. We were left wondering what to do, held in by its presence.

6.05.2014...

I did wake before five today determined to witness the sun’s rise. The horizon’s edge was already crimson. Over the next 30 minutes, with me determinedly propped up in bed, I watched the low clouds morph from gray to passionate brilliance. Big words for something so often described as “pretty,” but I know behind this simple word lies the emotions of love and fire.

6.04.2014...

I awoke just before 4. The sky was beginning to lighten, only a few stars still visible. At the bottom of the window parallel to the pillow where my head lie, a tinge of light almost visibly expanded. Sleep reclaimed me, but I opened my eyes again shortly after five to brilliant pink and a half ball of sun at the horizon. Louise Erdrich suffered from horizon sickness when she lived in New Hampshire and longed for the North Dakota skyline she was born to. I did not grow up with such vastness, but have found my home in it. At the end of every road: vastness, Erdrich mused. Out of every window: vastness, I would add. The horizon is full of openness and possibility; it is a place your mind can fly to.

6.03.2014...

Half the cottonwood lies across the schoolhouse yard. It is not just a limb, its stout girth too much for any lightweight chainsaw we might use. The tree’s upright half is leafed out in deep green, the fallen half is trying hard, but only producing small light leaves. The trunk is still attached and arches beautifully, high enough to walk underneath. I want to leave it where it is, allowing the reverberation of the fall to continue.

6.02.2014...

We arrived at the ranch late last night, weary but happy to begin again what was left off last August. We let our glasses ring in summer as they came together over the table with our dear cousins.