Smooth pieces of wood left dry when spring meltwater receded. Rough broken rocks, or round ones pulled from water that was ice an hour ago. New pale green needles on fragrant Douglas firs, soft and springy. My eyes follow the long curves of parallel mountainsides, wondering. It is a sculptured world.
Clouds rent by storm, or formed smooth and layered by steady strong winter winds over long ridges.
Water, patient maker, worrying its way into fractured rock, finding its way. Year by year the land changes, carved, shaped. These are all things that take time to notice. The secrets are hidden until you look, until you walk the land with open eyes, open ears, ready hands and fingers. Time, flow of color from white to new green to summer green to golden to white again.