woodland saturday.

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i am finding it preferable to climb the moose hill without the use of poles

[it used to be a coyote hill before mister pencilfox lay'd a road to the upper terrace]

 feeling quite coyote-ish as i stepped out of the house and into snowshoes, 

femoral and gluteal muscles propelling me up the steep grade, 

watching for moose tracks, listening to woodland noises. 

the sky varies from chambray to light blue, billowy angelwing clouds 

rapidly floating by.

this day's trip was a quick one.

i promised to not tarry with photos or gaping at the sky and the trees: 

mister pencilfox was cooking a beef stew. 

i pause before leaving the hill,

just as one would before stopping to dip a finger into the font of holy water. 

this snow is my winter holy water. 

you see:

this is my chapel. 

birdsong and wind are my prayer. 

fir is the incense perfuming this church. 

we sit at the table, silently enjoying each other's presence,

breaking bread, tasting the flavours of the soup and the flavours of this very life we live

in our alpine hinterland home. 

life is good. 

snowshoe saturdays are grand. 

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