I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,
And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,
The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,
Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,
Where the car stalls,
Churning in a snowdrift
Until the headlights darken.
first stanza of "The Far Field" by Theodore Roethke
I cannot help but dream of journeys, out in the snow-laden wood. Sadly, I watched the weather forecast tonight and learned it will soon be in the 70’s. Sigh. The smell of spring was in the air tonight as a steady rain began to fall, and Easter lillies are finally emerging, poking through the earth like the beaks of tiny ducklings, green and bright, reaching for the sky. And like e.e. cummings said, everything is "puddle wonderful" right now, which doesn’t make for such wonderful land at the ranch, or such wonderful paws on the Lazy Huskies.
Don’t get me wrong: I love the whole spring-is-rebirth thing. And, lacking in vitamin D, sitting in the sun certainly does feel good and makes my freckles pop. Digging in the dirt feels good.
But my head is always thinking of snow, of white, and miles and miles of trail.