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Show DEES HUNT We were twelve, except one being thirteen was old and wise. Dog, his name. Dagan, strange and unfamiliar so easily transformed. So Dog and Harry Goss-for Harrison, naturally, or Hairy Harry, as he more and more was called and galled, and I just Christopher J., we three ascended, with sneakers on our feet, the mountain, holy mountain, as mountains are by birth. And scrub oak trees, sagebrush, jackrabbits, sparrows, and deer are holy, for the earth is and the fulness thereof. But we were only twelve then, except one, and the day sparkling with spring and creation and sun. Singing with meadow-larks and magpies flashing black and white, while choirs of trees proclaimed in anthems sweet the bursting life of green. Green of innocence, green of ignorance. And all the sons of trees shouting for joy in their birth and deliverance under the morning suns. We frolicked, feeling one with the growing seed, the bursting life, feeling free at last of The Terrible Winter of '48-'49* And before us, stretching far and effervescent into the time warp of a twelve-year-old's spring mind-the day, dazed by its just birth, reeling gently in the warm intoxication of the sun. We sprang, pubescent Pans, through waves of new-green meadow grass whipping at our ankles. Robins, blackbirds, sparrows, the sailing sweep of the swallows and the rush of Beaver Creek filled with the new life of spring runoff, the mountains' gift. Trout, bullheads, frogs, crayfish (which later after the spring fall-off we'd catch and cook) and fresh water clams we grabbed to say we'd found some clams. Along the bank the willow trees-first of green-swept long and lazy in the breeze, and oottonwoods, at last with |
