Today is Thursday and the weather outside is windy, cloudy and cold. I just finished a short walk to the river where in the past, I have found secret moments of tranquility and peace.
The park was almost deserted, with no one in site, just the occasional honking of one or two Canadian geese passing over head. There was that quiet thrill of having the place all to myself and I took the familiar dirt road that meanders easily to the Carson River. A cold wind tugged at my uncapped head and I was glad I had layered before leaving the house.
The footprints of dog and humans imprinted into the sandy path lead me further along and I felt the exhilaration of being back in familiar surroundings. How many times I had walked this same deserted path, seeking some solace, answers to questions that always seemed to repeat themselves over and over again.
There is such a starkness to winter. It's timely appearance always leaves a breathless image across the colorless landscape.
A thick layer of whipped white clouds sat perched along the powerful profile of the great Sierra's, just waiting.
I embraced it all. The deep blue in the pockets of sky that were half hidden behind the turbulence of the ensuing storm, the soft green of sage against fallen brush and desert shrubs, even the subtle beauty of the Pine Nut mountains on one side and Prison Hill on the other, both racing across the horizon to meet the other like two unabashed lovers. I drank it all in as if to quench a nagging thirst. I left the park quietly content, mindful that I would return. This place is like an artist's painting that never disappoints no matter how many times you cast your eye upon it's beauty.
