Yesterday winter paid this mountain meadow a visit, lowering temperatures and visibility, painting everything white. The possibility of mountain snow drew me here even through a heavy rain storm that kept the car’s wiper blades working at full speed until we arrived at the trail head. A man stands with arms resting on ski poles and feet encased in rigid downhill skiing boots. Looking the heavy metal skis strapped to his back I asked, “did you find any.” “There was a ball someone made of snow yesterday; yesterday would have been great.” I could only honor his devotional hope. We both long for winter.
Without a chance for snow Aki and I drop onto a trail leading through a series of meadows to old growth forest. The rain, which had stopped for a few minutes slowly returns, its heavy rain drops creating concentric rings on the meadow’s pocket ponds. Aki waits patiently as I watch the rings spread evenly out until intersected by others. When the rain thickens into a downpour it will be chaos on the water’s surface but now each drop keeps a respectful distance from it’s brothers.
Lily pads that had almost covered each pond’s surface now disintegrate near it’s bed. Faded in color but not shape they form a ghost garden distorted by rain drop rings. I’m surprised by the forked stalk of Labrador Tea rising from the water. During the heady days of summer it’s mother plant sent it out into the pond to gather light without competition from it’s crowding neighbors. Now leaves showing the bright red of death illuminate the mother’s foolishness.