What more could I want?
I have the unchained sounds of the wind brushing through the bare trees. And the sky just pushes by on their way somewhere south of here. It’s very quiet except the sounds of the winds and my fingers clicking on the keyboard. I’m sitting in my jeep parked up against a white wooden fence that delineates the pastures, the 2 acre or so sloped patch of grass that provide the food, flooring, commode, and lint trap for the llamas and goats that live on it. The slope easily exceeds 25 degrees, and if I were to roll over the fence 4 feet, I’d be looking down into the tree line rather than out over the Catoctins. I guess route 340 winds out there west through that gap. Where it’s especially clear tonight, revealing the very distant lights of some West Virginia town I again guess. Had I a companion with me, this would be an arguable point. But as I sit alone, no one can contest me. The owners of the “inn” where I live are gone this evening for Thanksgiving dinner. The other displaced bachelors that live up here at Raspberry springs are also gone off with family or friends. So, yes, I am quite alone. My primary friend within earshot, is the wind. It doesn’t often shut up when it’s around. Odd, were it not for the windbreaks offered by trees and structures, it might slide over the ground without a sound.
The air turned quite cool…and the ranks of clouds show the faded orange glow of the sunset. I fear not turn around and see the full moon hovering somewhere over my right shoulder. I hear the Brunswick line, probably coming from Martinsburg.
The hills and farms have gone black, all but the window lights and house lamps. Back in my desert, the ground would have certainly been desolate and … not the worst, worst darkness.
I still see the thick streak of sunset…like a thin window …if I could peak my head over the lower edge of that streak, I’d find this expanse of gold…my whole life past, glazed over, in golden mist. The Brunswick howls – and my mind wanders in dementia to a dinner table at Thanksgiving. Yes, it is Thanksgiving tonight and for the first time in my life, I am utterly alone on the side of this hill. My children are happy and playing with their friends, my wife, soon to be ex, is probably drinking wine and feeling sad.
Me? I’m just glad for my senses and undying faith and hope, that one day, the sounds of the wind will not remind me of this moment but of something new. Lord, bless this evening, your day is done, she was a fine one. Thank you for the unrecognizable shapes of the clouds, and fathomless smears of cool wind that tear up my eyes and fill my nose so that I’m barely….breathing right. Now sleep comes…damn these short days of your eastern winters. My desert, my soul mate; only in the most deep and solemn seconds, do we truly recognize each other.