From where I live I can see the cumulus clouds building up over the Blues. My view is a narrow one from the house, not like this sweeping one, but the clouds lean down my street and sometimes, when the urge is too strong, I have to head out for a ride. I’ve been cloistered at home with the light from my computer screen glowing late into the evenings or smothering projects in the shop with paint stripper for a few weeks now. I haven’t written on the blog or even added to my memoir. Not a word.
So I called to Pup and we headed off. I promised her a walk somewhere, but she loves the ride getting there. Here she was in this photo listening to the slither of a snake or the rustling of a field mouse. The trip last night up the North Fork of the Walla Walla River gave her smells of goats and cows and a deer. She stood between the seats watching or hanging her head out as the good smells came.
It’s harvest time in the valley. The dust was back lite by sun rays as the tractors came in from the fields to park for the night. Wheat trucks loaded rushed by me.
The hawk on the gate looked for the final meal of the night in the short stubble and a coyote ran along a ridgeline.
This was no ordinary ride. It was a joy ride. How one celebrates when one’s world flips around is something one doesn’t always plan. Earlier in the day I yelled “Whoop!” as I submitted an application for a writer’s residency. The shouted “whoop” rose above me and dissipated through the walls out into the valley. I guess that when I went for the ride later I was just following the syllables, pulled along in the wake of their projection in a southern course. I used to be a retired elder and now, flip, I am a writer. Or so, I now suppose.
I stopped a moment at an old pioneer cemetery. Here I know are the graves of whole families who seemed to die all at once. I’ll take joy where I can find it. I’m sure that I’ll carry it with me when it will be my time to go. When I think of dying I think of how much I shall miss this gloriously beautiful world, so I try to catch its images and maybe in the next world I’ll reconstruct its essence.
The North Fork is a dead end, but no matter. The light on the barbed wire, the old cottonwood trees and the folds of the hills proffered slices of views. Pleasing ones. Later while I waited for the pup to poop in the dark at a park near home, I figured out how to use another aspect of a photo application. Another joy. Applying for that writer’s residency may be a dead end, but the road there has given me insights into my capacities and dreams out on the horizon.