Song of the river

It is January and there is deep snow. I am 35 miles from Santa Fe and 8,000 feet above sea level. Mid-afternoon is my ecstatic hour before the shift to hell of night. The propane man has not reached the cabin for three weeks. I’ve picked my way across the stones and am sitting on my usual rock, my knees tucked under my chin. I am in the middle of the Pecos River. The heat of the sun briefly burns my face but the banks are festooned with icicles. The heat lets me live again. Soon the sun will disappear behind the canyon walls. I am hungry; today I have eaten a baked potato, my entire food for the day. Hungry has become normal. I am light as air. The rush of the river fills the caverns of my ears as it courses its wild way through the canyon. My heart becomes a bird and soars upward to the blue.