The first signs of winter snuck in through the back door of fall and stretched the tight fitted sheet over the lake as graceful geese and fat mallards land for a quick bite to eat; disappointedly they find that their private pool has been closed for a winters retreat.
They decide to relieve their feet, and set their wings, on the warmer sails of the south. Quiet overtakes the valley, except for a few shivering trees; the only other sound
is the breath of winters deep blue icy breeze. The spoon licked frosting has spread across spring’s floor, and gives no choice but to surrender; the cold color guards of baby pines, lower their green banners accepting their imprisonment. A delicious freshness seeps into the swirling air, and though the trees are still weeping, signs of winter friends begin their greeting, each of them with their sniffy little noses. A ranting robin curses at a red headed pecker tenant, the robin is demanding to know why, with all the rent free trees, this pecker head had to rent a loft directly above me? The woodpecker taps him a nasty note back in Morse code. Seven letters, that’s all I know. A few young full moon burping eyed squirrels are playing games of pop goes the weasel, in the hollows of the tree. One big buck forages for breakfast, keeping an eye out for unfriendly foe. Though uncomfortable for some, this is nature’s spring cleaning, a chance to wash her self off, freshen herself up, and dress up in white cotton and lace. It won’t seem that long before the return of autumn leaves, steal the breeze once again. As the brave young residents file out of their overnight hide-a-beds; they venture into strange new looking ice chunked landscapes.
For first time fawns, they do the popcorn dance, with their furry little skinny snow boots, listening to the glistening crush of snow, and with their yellowish dearly brown coats, buttoned up tight, makes it easy to pretend, that their little Halloween popcorn balls as they stumble and roll down the cool snow ball banks. With spastic legs, the crystal flakes, the delicate snow blown groomed ice enticing them, they decide to begin skipping and scampering about. But soon, the white wolves of winter will be looking forward to feeding their young, and the landscape, will take on a whole new agenda.
The white wolves of winter are no different from the rest of the residents here, except that they, the bears, and naturally the big snoot moose, get top billing in the forest production each year. But in wisdom, lies the wolves truth, their just trying to make it through another season, teaching their young how to hunt, and ink out a life as a minimalist. In part this is what makes this lust of a wonderland so astonishing, how the balance of nature can be so awe inspiring, with tiny little threaded delicacies, then so rudely and abruptly red in its finality.
The flourishing life of spring has no eyes on this winter venue; this is a cold season, with cold and calculating realities. For the meek, friendly, or slow, there will be a vicious slaying. Life dares new creations of this wilderness, to succeed in its strength and agility test, or suffer the dead of night consequences. One would think that soft young furry faces, with rich begging brown eyes, rubbery spastic legs, and playful nature, would garner the pleasantries to melt the coldest of winter hearts. But alas, this is not their truth. As in the nibbling little mouth of a tree squirrel, with it full moon burping eyes, which seems to have something important to tell us, "but not until she finishes her nut feast" brings morning arriving with hope rising, yet tonight will fall dark hard, with the conviction of a blacksmith hammer against an anvil, and for her, in this same quickness….life will end.
This is the rude rule of life in this unforgiving wilderness city, much like our concrete cities, and the rural country homes across America. Violence and killing run amok. For us though, the shame must fall in our failures, but should rise again in our courage. We are similar to the forest creature in some regards. But truth is; our motives are totally different than theirs, but our awareness of our mistakes and there consequences are just as deadly. The unforgivable sorrow is “our inherited fear” fear of the bad dark wolves, and the meek, just concede the loss, and go about life as if eating rotten cotton candy is normal, the meek gave up those brilliant shiny lights of life, that could have been, that should be, and of course, the use to be’s, the light that they held so dear in their hearts.
If we took heed and lead with numbers, the dark wolves would be listed on the endangered species list, and sent packing from a kinder earth. But until we learn to breaks day with heavy numbers, this fear cannot be contained, and only in tearful dreams will they survive.
So I say to you, let what ever spirit you subscribe to, grant you, more nights of slow loving, more days of shared friendship, but most of all let us, the meek, learn to gather in numbers and inherit the earth. We must teach ourselves that our spirit rise higher than man built skyscrapers, and above the violent wolves of these cities, above fears we have inherited, above mistakes made this century. We “ALL” must begin to strike back with condemnation, forcing those who would deny us this, our sacred majesty, our sacred right to free light; must begin watering the flowers of friendships in our wilderness of gardens, so that we may grow, and set our keen sight on those scoundrels who would have the meek live in the focus of their fear forever, “never” I say to them,
"Let the dark wolves of our forest" eat shit, and howl at the moon” We are coming in large numbers soon……..THE MEEK.