He gets off the bus and walks through the misty morning air. Here, a glimpse of the mountain tops; even a peek leaves him yearning to chase the vision, to turn heel and move toward them like some magnetic pull- away from ruler straight streets to crooked trails. Away from organized and orderly to the unpredictable and untouchable forces of nature. Lately I feel like I’ve been turning my back on the rockies. They have their own way of moving, of displaying personality. They are constantly changing with the sun’s movement and cloud shadows. Every time you look at them, they are different, something new is highlighted; so whenever his eyes peel away he feels as if he is being slighted a chance to understand them more, to witness their beauty. At the arboretum, he works methodically, following the same tried and true routine he’s become habituated to. The only thing to distract him from the task that so consumes him, are his deep-seeded criticism for visitors. Their bad habits, their noise, for their production of plastic and disposable waste. (Ignoring the fact or contradicting the fact that they are out to appreciate nature). But of course, this criticism exists only in his thoughts. He would never actually confront someone about this behavior; he’d rather quietly watch and pick up after them when they leave.
Back on the bus, a thin film of dirt along his limbs, he glowers at other passengers and keeps quiet. So consumed by their quest for acceptance and materialism, they are totally unaware of their surroundings! That man on the phone has no idea there’s a red tailed hawk flying over his head. That woman reading? Blissfully unaware of the sun glinting off the snow on the mountain peaks. This is not a new thought. He returns to it regularly- savoring the pain, much like a tongue running over a cold sore- almost subconscious and helpless. But, he is right, in a way; as people drive their Hondas and draw money from bank machines, there are whales floating in the vast sea, predators chasing prey, tiny litters of wild dogs being born. They seem like different worlds, impossibly coexisting on one planet.
He steps off the metal steps, thanks the bus driver quietly, and walks to his cabin. He opens the door, pats Makea on the head, they perform their ritual walk in the woods. Left behind, stoically and quietly waiting in his cabin are books, binoculars, camping gear, boots, and little else. Some photographs of mountains, climbing parties atop a summit. There is a picture of him and his family out camping: all of them sitting in a row along the lake shore line. A great memory of a trip to the mountains in which everyone bickered and argued and battled the whole drive there, only to be healed, calmed, quieted and shushed by nature’s presence. He returns to these items, turns on a yellow light, eats a simple supper as he reads a field guide or natural history book. He cleans his one dish and one fork and one cup. Afterwards, he walks outside, waters any plants that need it, puts his chickens into their coop for the night and stands for a moment before complete darkness envelops the yard. There’s a moment of gray silence in which everything melds in to the same color at varying shades as tree trunks become backlit by the simple acceptance of the day’s end. The light leaks out of the scene gently; gently but without pause.
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