Looking Up

This time of day, when the eyes of the sun become soft and her lids begin to droop, one can see the hidden violet that lies in hiding in the furrows of fresh-plowed fields. The red in children's cheeks, the fir cone jewels hanging near heaven, the glowing bark of cliffside Madronas, all come out of refuge and present themselves to those who have the eyes and are unhurried.
This time of day, when the march of the clock is suspended for a blessed time, when breathing becomes an experience, when magic descends on wings of foregiveness, this time is the precious time.
All day spent in preparation is not wasted. Routines broken, hunger endured, television forgotten---this time, the last light of day, is the magic time. This is the last stand of the day.

I am being taught to look up---.

Rows of Poplar trees rake into the sky, marking the farm house oasis; islands in the vastness of the flat, fertile valley. I imagine they tickle the soft bellies of low clouds as they hurry to empty themselves into rivulets and streams born in the foothills and mountains. In summer their leaves rattle collectively; a moaning rustle driven to frenzy by the teasing wind. Undressed for the night of winter, they hum an unknowable tune, the wind blowing through their branches, transforming the long rows into massive, natural pipe organs. To me they look sad and bare boned. Skeletal fingers of a hand rising from the same ground that gives life to the bounty of potatos and cabagges grown in this valley.
At their feet I stand, looking at a clear blue sky fractured and framed a thousand times by criss-crossing branchlets. The early sunsets of winter transforms those trees into a reef of rose gold coral, with birds instead of fish swimming there. Perched at the top tips, swaying in the current, slowly rocking to and fro, the birds sing the last songs of the day; a good night lullaby to the fields and sky. The blue of that sky is changed, transmuted, by the alchemical color magic of the golden trees. The vibrant violet can be seen above, as well as below, in the furrows of the fields.
The warm end-day light seems to shine from within each branch, a tall lantern wall glowing in a blue night. In the east a ghost-cloud round moon rises above the dusk green hills. The slight knowing smile of the man in the moon beams down understanding; a wink of the eye, like a secret code. He and I are the holders of a sacred trust.