This weekend, I did everything but…
the usual household chores, mowing the grass one last time before winter really sets in,
cleaning up the garage, burning the trash, even scrubbing the toilet.
I danced around it all weekend, hiding from my fate.
Last week, I was there, looking at birds with a group, taking in the sights on a cold morning,
looking at eagles, and a water dipper, and being distracted by the flow of the river
along the last of the orange leaves on the willows and dogwoods, the low early winter light
shining on the cold basalt above the rapids,
cold wind rushing down the river, away from the newly dusted mountains.
Finally, I found myself with nothing else, but what I needed to do.
My paint tubes flew out of the bin, and I grabbed a brush, then another,
as I spread the paints across the large canvas I had just unwrapped, and soon
the sky appeared, then the river, and then, finding more paint to mix with my brush,
the basalt, the dry grass and sage, and bear brush, until the canyon appeared,
giving the river a place to move, and clouds to reflect.
In a final burst, the leaves appeared, giving an edge to the river, keeping it
confined, until the water flowed off of the canvas
wetting my feet.