The first storm of an early winter descends into the Front Range of the Rockies. I watch rain pound into the canyon. Late afternoon light slants through the sudden deluge, creating a radiant scrim across the pine-green slope of Arkansas Mountain. It has just turned September, but this rain aspires to hail, battering soil, rock, pine and three mountain bikers in racing regalia.
Gravity is an ancient excuse for violent water.
The gods are having a fist-fight up there, spitting out their teeth and their chilled, white blood. I am dry. I am standing at the edge of changing into something more than I have ever thought or wanted to be. The strength doesn't come willingly. It leaves me spent and vacant.