Hieroglyphic messages

Yesterday, the lake was half-size. Dust and clouds and snow creating the optical illusion that only a thin line of water existed. This morning with the wind’s rest, the lake is full and wide and full of shimmer. In the sun, with more blue sky than not, I was pelted with snow as I walked the lakebed. Winter Ridge has fresh snow, but not much and less than yesterday.

One always wonders if a place that you love can ever get better. I mean sure the views, the quiet, the birds, the views, the stars, the focus, the ease, the views that’s why I come. But is that all, says one so fortunate. This year there are Turkey Vultures roosting in the trees outside the lodge. Hard not to say things just got a lot better. I wander over in the evening to look at them, they’re like, great, tourists. But they are wonderous. And more polite than the flicker that has been peeping in my window. I think he’s actually just admiring himself in the reflection and occasionally practicing dance moves. If I was that beautiful, I’d appreciate me too.

Here's a weak hand poem from the weekend:

At daybreak, literally as sun rises
over the spine of mountain
I’m on the Playa; on the cracked
surface run through with a thousand
small notes from rain, wind, coyote,
bird: whatever is blown or walks
or flies, writes something here.
Water rises and falls leaving hieroglyphic
messages as it seeps away, evaporates,
leaves the West.