Sunday, June 14, 2009

Whispering Winds

Pine trees along WIlliams Lake trail, Taos ski...

Image by shewhopaints via Flickr

This is a re-write of a story I did for Ruminations of a Small Town Mountain Boy. I hope you enjoy it!

There was a place back home where I loved to go and sit, to think and ponder.  Sorting through all those  wandering thoughts, organizing, adding just a little structure to my cluttered head.  It was a lonely place, filled with spirits of times past, a place of centering, soulful reflection.  A place deep in the pine forest, near a small grove of Aspen trees.   

There was an old miners tram, mounted on steel rails that rose quietly, lithely up the mountainside.  Many a worker had ridden the tram in it’s time of prosperity, an era long since forgotten.  Now it sits lonely and forlorn, weathered wood slowly corroding, splintering and disintegrating at the whim of times fickle hand.  Surrounded by tall lodge pole pine trees, reaching for the sky leaving a path vacant along the tracks. A lone pine tree, young and full of promise,  growing through the center of the tracks, obscuring the prospective view of ghostly riders. 

I would sit for hours, near that old tram, leaning against a tree absorbing the view of the mountain forest and listening.  At times, I could swear I heard the groan and grind of an old electric motor, the remnants of which strewn about, struggling under a heavy burden.  There were times it was the mumblings of men, worn and weary, from a long hard day of strenuous  work.  Men who wished only for a stiff drink and a good meal,  dreaming of that elusive mother load gold strike.  Whishing for only one thing, what all people really want, to provide security and comfort to their loved ones. 

When you listened close, you could hear the wind gently stirring the  forest trees, softly whispering, silently singing a melody.  A song lonesome and sweet, filled with dreams and wonder, sorrow and serenity.  A sound so refreshing, remarkable, and full of life!

It was a place long forgotten, and lost to many. A place that surely had seen the sufferings and successes of people long since parted.  A place that strangely held an unusual focusing, soothing, and rejuvenating power. 

I could sit there and dream of centuries past…  people who came before.  Dream the simple dreams of those who toiled and troubled inside the mountain.  Feel the desires of those who worked the world above.  People harvesting its bounty or herding and hunting its  bestial gifts. Dreams so simple and supportive, lacking the stress of today's ventures.  A place I could lose myself in solitude, listening… learning from old spirits, yet young.  Guiding souls willing to lend an ear to a fellow lonely wanderer. 

When I allow myself, I can take my thoughts back to that place, and just faintly hear the forest of trees, whispering… softly singing a melody. Simple sweet music, unheard by many, treasured by a few lucky, lonely souls.

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