Spearfish canyon

while growing up in the black hills i had a dark understanding of what lived in the forest. nurtured by my creative spirit and tender-boy curiosity, my journeys out the door into the fields behind our house, along the streams, on the old logging roads up by the cabin we had during my childhood would engender a deeper love for the ground, plants, smell of air, sounds moving through trees, and at the same time an edge of fear would haunt me, sharpen my senses, keep me on my toes.

life has always been full of riches, although at times in my life i have neglected each moment to a degree that i missed how huge, bloody and golden it was - crafting instead a frenetic bewilderment, blocking out the pain, pushing myself insanely to accomplish something that would fulfill someone else's belief in me - not recognizing how shaky of ground i was on with myself, driving fast, shooting silver bullets, breaking glass under my bared souls. there was little room during many of those years for reflection or wonder.

today, another day, somewhat like yesterday in terms of simplicity, in continutity of process, i am grateful for the reflection, for the spearfish canyon breeze that blows down to the tips of my fingers, pine needles gray-green shimmer, mullein bobbing, brook trout hiding beneath the moss waiting for a small grasshopper to miscalculate his leap across the stream, constructing this day with simple tools and fibres woven through my struggle with life, they are sturdy, milling-stones heavy above and below are turning with slow grace, i am the grain.