The wind this morning reminded me of the mountain’s breath, low and hollow, that floated from the high peaks into the valley where we lived in Estes. I miss what was: the low grass, the sideways snow, the sparse trees. I miss finding shelter on the lee side of a boulder, winter sweeping past as the dogs pulled close and the elk, impervious, marched like wise men below. I miss goat trails, forgotten paths, the trace of the old Prospect Mountain road winding past juniper and stone to a cold, wild summit.
Brought low now, life is easy. Our land is a cradle, beautiful and calm. The trees speak to each other here. They listen to the signs, soften in the sun into vanilla, caramel and golden light.
Here we’re swaddled in the muslin of rich, dark earth, treated to the flutter of deciduous leaves, warmed by fire. It’s the perfect place to raise a child, and I wouldn’t trade it. But as we become parents, what happens to the people we were, and the life we lead?
I remember the clockwork creak of shifting studs as the wind pressed against our old house. The tectonic rhythm of bubbling soup in the warm kitchen. The corduroy shush of an owl’s wings on a lonely, moonlit Ponderosa branch. We were fluent in our own odd language there, the dogs and us.
Here we are just learning to talk.