I remember how easy 6.4 used to be on the river trail. All the way along the river, down to the lake, and back. Those days on the trail were so soul-nourishing and blissful for me--there was no season or weather that did not thrill me to my core. This time of year I know the lake is melting and now the consistency of light green slush. There may be steam that rises of the water in the eddies. I know the silent winter tundra is suddenly alive with the sound of waves washing on shore again. I miss the tiny clouds of birds that fly like crazy loosed confetti in those first days of false spring. I miss my hawks and owls flying low overhead to remind me that they watch over me. I miss the ocassional egret and pelican. I miss seeing the frozen lake and tundra come back to life in the tender early spring. I miss the dozens of gosslings that gather at the inlet in the cow pastures and seeing how the geese protect them from the cows and dogs. I miss the countless new calves and foals that teeter on new legs in the clumped up grass, standing close to their mothers. I miss the sound of those sudden microburst winds hitting the treetops--the wind so deafening and powerful it would take my breath away. Every single day, it was secret power and source of inner strength. I have become Sampson without his hair. | 