Friday, January 16, 2015


"Mountain Bluebird" by Elaine R. Wilson - NaturesPicsOnline. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons.

I first walked in the pine woods on the far side of the mountains, that summer: the prickly, crumbly duff underfoot, the smell of resin, the intimation of fire.

You asked, "They feel different. Are you sure these are your hands?"

"I'm sure," I said. "They're my hands."

I thought a while and added, "they might feel different for a couple reasons. You've just reset millions of synapses, so your perceptions are bound to be altered. And I'm feeling especially tender towards you, so I might be touching you especially tenderly."

"Thank you," you said, and tears started in your eyes. Whether for the present tenderness, or the lost hands, I didn't know.

I saw a mountain bluebird for the first time, that summer, by the Metolius River. So fragile, and so beautiful. I had never seen anything so blue; I didn't know anything could be that blue. But I had no one to tell.


Kathleen said...

Well, this is gorgeous! All over gorgeous!

Lori Witzel said...

Duff. It's going around.
From a poem I have in progress:
"So it’s different and yet not: I start to walk, casting on the trail, / scuffing cypress needle duff. ..."


Lucy said...

You've told us now. And it is unbelievably blue!

ntexas99 said...

refreshing, and beautiful