That Friday in November when the leaves were no longer upon us I took the drive. Alone with the muddy clouds moving in swiftly replacing the cobalt Colorado sky I motored northwestward. 287 en route for the Wyoming line, with more than a little Whiskey in me. A rage had been pouring above me for too many hours leading to a slow tumor of anger in my character for many days. My shadow was no longer present, giving proof of my malice of spirit. It was time to drive.
The moving dark current was pushing me, elevating me home. Instinct led me to watch the disappearing sun reflect off of Haystack rock and then it was time to feel the glass bottle round against my cold lips. Thirteen miles to my turn at the Forks. Miles that would have me chastise each new home owner that built their tower of Babel on high dry land. Seeking Grace, with the burn of hell’s own stream swimming in my throat I turned the leather padded helm and set my inflamed eyes on Red Feather Lakes.
My heart leads me over the volcanos and around the scorpion landscape. Home, past Monkey Head and McNeigh Hill, to history, thin air witches, and my soul. No snow needed this year for ghost fill this painting, past the trails I used to run, to sweet Lady Moon Ranch. Jacob’s ladder dreams to the certainty of tires on pavement up Mount Margaret, Lost Lake to my back never to be found. The duck pond genuflecting in twilight reaching for death before evening light. Clouds mapping early stars above this mountain village marking the boundary of my daddy’s grave. The Mummy’s higher still beyond, may be a drive for another day.
This warden let’s me fly, and I possess what was won before. There by Cherokee Park, in darkness by the rock wall, while ice fell. I became what someone once became before. In silence near the aspens my son learned to walk, in tapestries’ of pine and an audience of rocks my daughter reached the stars with her song. I was born here in the rocks above timber, immortal in love and judged, a small feat in the eyes of G-d. I was cut here by demons and by compassion I was set free. I drive on and when I twist I see my father’s blue fluid eyes glancing in delight at me.
That Friday in November, with strange darkness, and no real sound, I drove up and I was bound. Where anger was present memory took from me and dealt with me in pleasure. Bitter winter that detained me is broken and my return down that highway is token assurance that what I brought to the high country is lifeless for now my vision shifts and moves and I think without a sound. That Friday in November when the leaves were no longer upon us I took the drive.