Blowin' in the wind....

MISSIONARY RIDGE

We climb.
We climb higher and higher
and steeper and steeper.
There are ten of us, all seniors
meaning aging adults.
But I climbed alone.
I recall stopping to point out
a purple daisy...
"Aster?" I asked but
no-one was there to hear me.

We climb
and they climbed faster than me.
I recall approaching them all,
gathered at a natural ledge.
Looking out to the long valley
far below, I comment,
"That rapid looks so small
from here."
But they had all climbed on.

In time, as we ascended,
they were distant white ghosts
in a sea of oranges and reds
while I listened first
to my breath somewhat labored.
Then I heard my walk and now
I heard dried leaves crackle underfoot,
which brought forth the pleasant
dusty-musty scent of dried leaves.

I stopped.
High enough now, I could gaze
on entire hillsides.
Oranges, yellows, reds -- all oakbrush
after the fire --
and that view was highlighted
by stark white dead trees,
their bark long fallen off.

I wanted to string tuned wires
between the lyre forms
now revealed in the tree-trunks.
What sound would I hear then,
played by the wind?

I used to stand on another ridge,
guitar in hand
fingers in shifting chord formation
and single fingerings.

And with that strong seasonal wind
blowing
I held the guitar out there
And I let the wind
blow me the answer.
10-11-07

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