I’m an old woman with a few good memories that often crowd out the pleasures of the present moment. Compulsive comparisons of then and now push me around like a cold wind howling through a high mountain pass. Wind so strong it lifts the scree and flings pebbles back in my face.
Town living has failed to eradicate my communion and passion with the vast sky. Lenticular and wave clouds rise in the west with filigree fingers that reach to lift me out of this docility.
For two days two raven have landed in my front yard prancing around, their sleek blue-black heads held high showing off. They’re here to tease me. They strutted boldly up and down the street daring the murder of crows to interfere.
I imagine they’re taunting me with a message I’m too dense to grasp. Effortlessly, they lift off, wings spread and point their heavy beaks westward toward the Greenhorn mountains. They’ll coast the currents over the Sangre de Cristo range, take the low Music Pass to land upon the Great Sand Dunes and slide down Medano Creek into the San Luis Valley.
There they are again, full of themselves gargling noisily on the driveway. I imagine they’re laughing at my torpor or encouraging me to slip on my coat, pull my cap on tight and walk into the now still air. Go before the afternoon winds whip the branches wild. Their shadows like charcoal etchings smear across the picture window.
The raven light up silver in the sun and urge me to fly. This may be my last chance.