Balance beam

Not affecting a particularly quick pace, I seemed to be focusing on the hazy whitish-yellow that was glowing everywhere. Something from the left tapped on my consciousness and I turned to see little wisps of colorful patches, stepping their way up the hillside. That must have been where the Indians lived- up on that safe mesa above the river. What majesty their daily breath must have absorbed. I frequently find myself wishing that I could live as they had- with all of the simple contentment, thankful only for the beauty they beheld, the food which fed them, their love and respect for each other, and reverence for the infinite wonders of the universe.

Not 60 seconds later my puppies started tugging so I turned around to see the most magnificent horse ridden by an Indian. He was the sleekest black with a few smoky white patches, and a deep, dark chocolate mane that shimmered and shivered with each step he took. The soul which accompanied him also had long, shimmering, raven-colored hair. The feathers which were anchored to his temple danced with wild abandon beneath his well-worn hat. The horse ignored my awe-stifled pups and looked straight into my eyes. His mate bowed sideways to me, before he snapped the reins and they took off running. I watched the dust billow as their silhouette grew smaller, before being swallowed by the golden white mist.

It must have been the adrenaline from that magnificent moment, because I suddenly found myself quickening down the path. I passed the rocks where I often stop to let the dogs sniff while I collected my thoughts. We were almost at the balance beams where J and I like to play, when suddenly and without thought, I turned around and drank it all in. There was the tree whose smooth, cool rock bank I frequented, but the whole landscape surrounding it was at a slope which I had not previously realized. Getting dizzy just thinking about it, I wondered how a spaz like me could walk through that without falling each and every time. But there, in the middle of the crooked sanctuary, stood my tree- tall and straight as if it had grown measured against a level. We all know that levels are tools made by man, whose mandates a mighty tree would never heed. No, it drinks from the earth and reaches for the sun, alone.

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