Dry Mountains in Early March

THE SOUND OF THE SEA

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And insipirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)



My mountain is very dry, the forest is crackling under my feet, the fire danger is officially "HIGH". The winds are roaring down and through the canyon and I find myself remembering the roar and mist of hidden coves on my ocean walks. Memory becomes such mystery to me. What my psyche soul re-members on this dry Colorado mountain in early March is part of the "inaccessible solitudes of being."