I recently returned from a trip to Austin and West Texas to meet my new baby nephew, visit family and good friends, and see the beautiful countryside. I was struck by the beauty of a newborn child, old mountains, and the numerous stars of the night sky, so often forgotten when living in the city.
"It seemed as though he were never able to forget his ultimate purpose and goal --- he was going home; home to his own master, home where he belonged, and nothing else mattered. This lodestone of longing, this certainty, drew him to lead his companions ever westward through wild and unknown country, as unerringly as a carrier pigeon released from an alien loft."
-Sheila Burnford, excerpt from Chapter 5 of The Incredible Journey
-Sheila Burnford, excerpt from Chapter 5 of The Incredible Journey
Looking west at the Rio Grande from "La Cuesta" on FM 170 in Big Bend Ranch State Park, Texas
Journeys West
I feel the weight of a one month old child in my arms.
Our eyes meet.
One looking at the other looking at the other,
And I laugh in amazement.
Night falls, and I run out the door.
Has it really been five years?
To remember again how very small we are,
And how we move within this vast space.
Only a sore, craning neck can separate my gaze from the twinkling pattern above.
Midday sun and triple digit heat.
Red faces and bewildered park rangers.
Shadows become sanctuaries,
Excuses for diverting one's path.
Little cracks and crevices become mighty strongholds
For fingertips and toes guiding hesitant bodies
Across smoothed and hot rock.
Clusters of wildflowers naturally divided into bouquets
Dot the field deliberately
Leaving spaces for walking.
In the desert wind,
Their varied blooms each orbit their own space,
But gather together into constellations
Into the ground
As one
To slurp whatever water is given.
Look up from the flowers and up at the mountain,
At the vertical thrusts of rock
In neatly angular rows.
Is it still moving?
Do you think it's still moving?
Her mother rides a bike down the dusty path
As we scrawl and liquidly glorify the silhouette
Of the nearby mountain on paper.
Look down at his eyes.
They may turn green or hazel or brown.
Right now they are dark blue.
He closes them, and so do I.
I feel the weight of a one month old child in my arms.
Our eyes meet.
One looking at the other looking at the other,
And I laugh in amazement.
Night falls, and I run out the door.
Has it really been five years?
To remember again how very small we are,
And how we move within this vast space.
Only a sore, craning neck can separate my gaze from the twinkling pattern above.
Midday sun and triple digit heat.
Red faces and bewildered park rangers.
Shadows become sanctuaries,
Excuses for diverting one's path.
Little cracks and crevices become mighty strongholds
For fingertips and toes guiding hesitant bodies
Across smoothed and hot rock.
Clusters of wildflowers naturally divided into bouquets
Dot the field deliberately
Leaving spaces for walking.
In the desert wind,
Their varied blooms each orbit their own space,
But gather together into constellations
Into the ground
As one
To slurp whatever water is given.
Look up from the flowers and up at the mountain,
At the vertical thrusts of rock
In neatly angular rows.
Is it still moving?
Do you think it's still moving?
Her mother rides a bike down the dusty path
As we scrawl and liquidly glorify the silhouette
Of the nearby mountain on paper.
Look down at his eyes.
They may turn green or hazel or brown.
Right now they are dark blue.
He closes them, and so do I.
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