The Colors of a Blessing

Although it snowed Friday morning, an event which would've crushed my spirit had Duncan not loved it as much as he did, it was gone by the afternoon and the rest of the weekend was sunshine and perfection. Life on the edge of The Rockies has been very kind and at times it's been too easy to believe winter will never stake her claim. Autumn has gone on and on day after day and if I didn't know how the weather in Colorado loves to tease I could easily be tricked into thinking the snow will never come. Duncan and I spent much of the afternoon, after the chores were done, the bread baked and yogurt made, walking the park, sniffing out bunnies, dancing in the leaves, laying on our backs staring up at the blue sky, a warm breeze blowing over us, a clatter of leaves racing across the grass and breaking against the sides of our bodies. It was the kind of November day I can not remember from my life in Idaho or the years I spent in Illinois. It could only happen here, in this place where we walk through all the seasons of the year and experience blissful days of spring in November, or early Summer in the dead of winter. This whole week promises to be kind and gentle and we may even see 70˚ again.


And the sunset was amazing, a bonfire burning behind the clouds, the wind settled and calm, the smell of pine needles thick in the air, like a living room on Christmas morning. Duncan and I stepped outside and sat on the grass behind the apartment, he chewing a bully stick, one paw resting on the top of my foot, while I marveled at the dusk and marked it as a gift from The Universe. The colors of this night were the kind that made me want to call everyone I know and urge them outside where their faces could be painted in amber and crimson, a kind of blessing and prayer against the cold of December and the frigid breath of January.