Clusters of dead aspens reach toward the pure, lustrous azure sky like desperate, dexterous, multi-fingered hands. Live aspens bow to me with each blow of the wind, showing me their joy at my visit.
Mountain bluebirds! Vultures! Aspens! Rocky Mountain Range! Mesas! Red dirt! Where’s my camera...but it can’t capture my excitement at these first experiences.
Stones in colors not found at home blanket random portions of the mountain floor. River rock, they say...which river? I want to go there. Think of the number of stones...
Faces change expressions here, there. So many faces! Split-second switches from puzzled to joyful, peaceful to jestful.
My birthday. My extended family. Pretty baby. Birthday song—for ME! Bounteous, blazing bonfire in the darkest of nights. Folding chairs. Starbucks cards. Laughter. Late.
My MS in Colorado: like a group of animals finding a faulty latch on the gate, running past the sleeping zookeeper—the keeper of their incarceration—relishing every moment of their newfound freedom in the midst of unknown surroundings, knowing the bars will hold them again once morning breaks and the zookeeper corrals them into the cages. I return home. “Naughty little animals…don’t you know you belong here now? In you go…”
