Among the Giants

  

I wander over frost-crunchy meadows and marvel at maple leaves like snowflakes frozen in their gorgeous rust-colored decay.

Quietness settles over the valley as I weave towards the shore. 

The mountains shake with sunlight and stretch their dreams into the still blue sky. 

I pull my scarf more tightly around my chin, pull my hat down over my ears; I have not tasted winter in many years. But it is not yet winter, it is still the fall and I have a long descent ahead of me: nights of clouds obscuring those bright memories of light overhead, mist snaking through the dying grass, murders of crows screeching behind a curtain of early sunset. 

My breath comes in fogbanks, my laugh a blast of warning to those off my weaving bow. 

I see Tahoma on the horizon, a watery chasm between us, drift wood reaching spindly arms for the snowy peaks encircling this island. 

I walk these beaches, through these woods, through my door knowing I am Home. 

For now, forever, for as long as the island wants me, I am here and I am grateful.