The Sentinel of Steamboat Springs
Poems From The Porch
The aspens do a shimmy and a shake before it rains,
their dance an invocation to the gray clouds to lighten up.
Once the wet heaviness has been released,
the white-barked beauties settle into an uncanny stillness.
A few cacophonous crows are providing the morning bells today,
inviting all to awaken.
The air is still, but not quiet,
a mix of helicopter droning and busy street sounds,
providing a jambalaya that is filling but not tasty.
It feels incongruent, as I receive it,
this combination of visual loveliness, cool mountain breeze, and auditory noise.
It reminds me that everything is a gift,
no matter the packaging,
like the simply-wrapped morning yoga class, in which I participated yesterday,
and the joyfully adorned splash and play that I enjoyed in the afternoon.
Blue-eyed, gentle Sandy lead our yoking session,
her presence a beacon of love in the world;
and the Yampa River was the oasis where my life companion and I took a dive in the rapid-laden clear water.
Right now, I am observing a tiny bird who has been perched at the uppermost point of a blue spruce,
for what seems like an eternity.
I wonder if I will find him there when I return to the balcony tomorrow,
this Sentinel of Steamboat Springs.
His miniature, white breast,
turned toward the sun,
is a shining beacon inviting attunement to the sacredness of this moment.
May this poem be a beacon and sentinel for you, too.