For the last two years my BoCo Wild Writers students and I have paused each month to observe our surroundings, and compiled these writings into a literary almanac. This year we’ve been facing each of the four cardinal directions each time. My mom and our boys and I took time today to compose these June observations.
Summer Solstice: 3 Generations, 4 Directions
north
The wind was whistling as the birds were singing.
Deer – previously. Cedar is booki-booki. Needles. Trees. New life. Decayed logs. Earth. Eventually, Canada. The pencil of sadness has arrived.
Solstice afternoon in Leadville with my daughter and her boys – my grandsons. Warmed by the intermittent sunshine or bird calls, a fly buzzes near me. Sitting in their two-story tree fort with the dark, curled bark dangling off the floor and side rails. The fir trees present with similar bark – barren of needles until they gain enough access to the sunshine.
A ship’s prow of beaver-chewed logs holds us aloft in our own crow’s nest floating above the forest floor littered with needles, strewn with branches, peppered with rocks.
east
The wind was howling and the birds were tweeting.
Steep. Uphill. Clouds. Writhing. Twisting. Trees. Swaying. Go that way, hang a left: Nebraska. You can’t miss it.
The poet is now only in my peripheral vision and her sons are in our “front” seat. The hillside now slopes upward. The ground is bathed mainly in sun with several thin stumps standing at attention and parts of some fallen trunks scattered about.
Two boys up in some trees, one talking nonstop. Taylor Hill climbs before us, stone steps leading to snow.
south
The wind was breezing and the birds were chattering.
The tropics. Warm, sunny beaches. Not here. That way’s the snowman and the largest drift in sight. No beaches for us. But that way’s Texas. You want beaches, go there.
I now am at our steering wheel. Erin’s gentle voice is the only way I know she’s present. The boys’ laughter confirms their presence to the east. My west (right side) is warmed by the sun. The gentle breeze brushes against my face. An occasional bird calls out. The hillside slopes gently downward, less dense with trees, more covered with medium rocks and one pile of twigs.
Trees stand in straight green and grey lines. Clouds blow up and roll in cartwheels over the bluebell sky. A raven chirrs. The dead tree that holds us high clutches handfuls of pinecone promises.
west
Charlie is barking and you can see the evidence of what was once a snowman.
Snow-capped peaks. Incredible sunsets. Even the occasional pine marten, bear, or fox. A downhill grade towards home (and Nevada).
I face the sun, legs dangling from the fort, the hill’s downward slope increased, the breeze slightly stronger and cooler. My northwest view is quite shaded, my southwest view more dappled (one of my favorite words), the wind more audible. This solstice day to be treasured until we celebrate the next one together in Australia this December.
Homestake’s hidden in a wall of white cloud, criss-crossed by a lattice of branches and trunks. The highway noise creeps up the hill, and we sway a bit with the solstice breeze.
