IINTERVIEW AT CRE8IVEQ

Interview at Cre8iveQs

VALLEY WIND EVERGREEN THORN SKY PATH CORN STALK SUN AND OTHER……………..

The wind came down to the valley. It touched the top first. Well, it was not a touch, but a resounding sound and visit. Akin to the way the ocean can crash on the shore. I saw that the trees began to shake and the snow laden branches shed the white, let it to go into the wind. I half-expected the earth to tremble, but it didn’t and wouldn’t. The things I remember whist standing there the most were the blue sky mixed with white clouds, plus the green of the tall evergreens mixed in with that blue, or I suppose in front of it. White and green and blue. There were other parts of nature besides, such as the little thorns that lived on the branches if they be called that, and just waited atop a bit of snow, as if to say that they had been frozen in time, which in a way they had. Also the old tree trunks that were covered in winter’s charms, - white, wind, some invisible but felt coldness.

 

The summit of the valley held a path and nearabouts the end of it was where I once saw a deer race past. In fact, if the truth be told, it wasn’t that it raced past, but that it was there, waiting, watching, and then raced away, - to my left, to its right. Once it was going through the brush it was like paint being thrown through the air, or a dream, a vision, and as quick as a thought. A deer can be as quick as a thought I would swear. Well, we circle around a bit eventually and come to a path, once again there is a path, - but this one has deeper snow because less souls have tread upon it. Nearabouts the end of that particular way, there is an opening, and once you go right, further away from the forest, the tracks usually stop and you have to make your own way. That is where we went and we did fine by taking our time, and also through enjoying the sun that shone down fairly, openly, honestly, and with its prowess, upon all and everything there.

After a while some inner clock said it was time to go. The wind, having picked up a bit here and there, had left again. I thought back to some time before when it was strong atop the valley wall. I had not seen the farmer in a long while, or the corn stalks that wait silently in the winter air, their aura something I had never experienced, their energy something I felt definitively, but could still not really place. The aura of corn stalks, of feed corn, is a peculiar one,- but it is handsome somehow, if an aura could be handsome, and seems like a smart wooden pier just newly built on a clam lake or quite a quiet part of an ocean inlet. I shall have to think more on that one, and re-visit those stalks that stand like that, hiding some mystery within such as spirits, stones, vortexes, such like that.

In the meantime we begin the walk out, part and parcel of a larger, of an infinite, of a sometimes difficult but always overall wonderful story.

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PRAYER FOR SNOW

So fast the small and definite snow left. So many visitors we don’t want or need, numerous loud souls abound and call. How will we skirt them? Yet the snow, the little poem itself, precarious on branches and kissing the ground, its leaves, and the rain tumbled rocks, had to go. Maybe it shall come again. I have to hope. It wants to come, I think, but is coy for some reason. I remember it before, the first time last year. I was on the summit of a large hillside and not only did it arrive but the wind chimed in and brought it across swiftly. Oh, it was some kind of song without words. I shall have to wait and wait. A calm but almost quietly desperate plea I shall silently make: White and sky, please see fit to mix and fall upon the region.

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RAIN

The rains had subsided. We walked. Upon entering a few of the really committed and true dog walkers could be seen. Greetings were made. One was finishing up and heading out. I had a good feeling about it all. The dogs sniffed and seemed happy. Fresh air. Movement. Brain and body activity. We went far and far and far. The rain, having completely stopped, left some remnants of itself on branches. These drops formed themselves quietly and didn’t fret. I thought, Aren’t you scared that you may fall into the grasses, the leaves, and disappear forever? They said simply, There is not a worry here, for we didn’t exist before and soon won’t again. 

Continuing on we saw the chaparral, the feral shrubs, an incredibly high old tree solitary reaching to the sky. We looked at some wilted flowers, felt the sand under our feet, and knew the pebbles and stones, the discarded branches, and a bit of wind.

 

Then it happened.

Just as we had entered a secluded and soulful path to make our way back. 

The rain.

It was patter patter patter against the forest top, and some of it was making its way down to us. We calmly went on, for what can be done? A little water never hurt anyone they say. It was its own music, and oddly enough, later, on the radio, which is rarely turned on, they played a composer and talked, I swear it, about how that particular piece was trying to find the nuance of water itself, mostly water in nature, as in what the speaker called the low and high sounds of a brook and everything in-between. 

Well, a brook we hadn’t discovered or been at. But I had stopped and turned around to gaze briefly but slowly and meditatively, contemplatively, at the fields. The sound of rain was there, - and the thing itself also. It coursed down and down to meet the land. It would keep people and their animals away for the most part, - until it really passed. And in a week or so it would be not rain but snow for the drop in temperatures. I thought about that, and how weird rain is in the beginning of December or the last day of November rather. 

Rain.

Soon it shall be traded for snow.

And then I will be writing about other colors and shapes, impressions and the altogether different season.

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