I taste the snow, each individual crystal bursting as it melts on my tongue. My mitten smells of wet wool and cold.
Bedtime. … The air wafting through the porch screens is cool-warm, with the scent of rain. My fingers smell of bruised mint leaves, picked from the herb garden beside the stoop not twenty minutes ago.
The buildings and grounds are constructed in concentric arcs that fit the natural contours of the hill, which slopes toward the great Jasper Lake.
As we left, Lotty and I strung a garland of wild asters and daisies across the door, to be removed only by the bride and groom on the morrow, when they enter to spend their first night in their new home.
Across the meadow, and round a huge outcrop of granite, we heard the upper falls before we saw them–two high ribbons, one far above the other, glistening water cascading down a sharp escarpment.
My mom, Ruby, is as giddy as a school girl with Beryl’s widower dad, James, the two of them twitching and twittering at the least provocation, like young lovers. You would have thought they were the bride and groom.
I am absolutely certain, though others disputed it, that I saw a mountain lion standing on the bluff overlooking the roadway as it curved down into the big valley beyond the Village of Adriene.
Gorged on wild berries, I’m deliciously full and sticky, lying here on the grass beside the stream, hat over my face, filtering just enough of the sun.
We’re making daub to finish Peter and Livia’s cob house. I step in gingerly. I have to warm up to the idea of muddy feet. But then it feels so good–gritty, cool, squirting between my toes.
Almost always there would be tracks–sometimes it would appear an entire flock of quail had circled him. Others, we would see the tracks of a coyote or wolf, and sometimes a mountain lion.