Nature Calling

The mountains this morning are shrouded in a soft mist, low clouds drifting like forgotten thoughts across their shoulders. A cold, biting wind stirs the trees—remnants of winter unwilling to release their hold. I think I remember this kind of wind. It used to wake me with purpose, but now it just lingers in the bones, like a name I can’t quite bring back.

There was a squirrel once—I called him Pesky. I think he used to come by early, just before six-thirty, looking for scraps on the back deck. Or maybe that was last year… or the year before. He came often, I’m sure of that. The birds still call out in the early hours—songbirds I once knew by name, now just notes I try to follow in my mind. And the big Stellar Jay—I still recognize his rough caw. That hasn’t left me yet.

A half-moon hung in the sky this morning, pale and distant, like a slice of lemon slowly disappearing into tea. The clouds were parting by then, softening into puffed gray cotton above the ridgeline. I watched them dissolve as the light grew, and I remembered—at least for a moment—what it meant to greet the day with clarity.

I had plans. I think they were important. But a phone call came—someone kind, familiar maybe—and just like that, the day turned. I had to go into town, though I couldn’t remember why until I was already there. Something about film. Yes, film. I still take pictures. At least, I used to. I remember the joy of holding the camera to my eye, of capturing a moment I didn’t want to forget. That part is fading too.

Some of the photos were too dark, but I used to fix them—adjust shadows, lighten faces, erase distractions. Cropping out the clutter helped me see the heart of things. Maybe I should do that with my mind too. Trim away what no longer serves. Hold onto what still feels like mine.

At the nursery, I found rose plants on sale. That felt familiar—roses. I have a few already on the hill. Dwarf ones, I think. And a carnation too, in a rich pink that I couldn’t leave behind. They say it will do well up here, and I hope they’re right. I want to remember the smell of flowers. I want something to grow, even as so much of me feels like it's slowly receding.

I keep thinking I’ll terrace the hill. Bricks? Railroad ties? I’m not sure. I flip through old books sometimes, but the words blur now, and I have to reread pages more than once. Still, I try. I always tried. I was the thinker and the doer, the dreamer and the hands in the dirt. Maybe I still am, in some small way.

Tonight, I’m home again. That, at least, is real. My hands are sore, my body tired. But I am grateful. Grateful for the cold wind, for the faint call of birds, for the stubborn rose, and for the memory—however fleeting—of what it felt like to know the world and to be known by it in return.

Nature is still speaking. She is the last thread I hold onto, the last voice I recognize when others grow faint. And as long as I can feel the wind and hear the trees, I know I’m still here.

At least for now. Or am I?