Ajijaakwe: Journey

I awakened this morning at home

Or so I thought

Not this home,

But one from long ago, on the land where I was born

Where my people have lived for ten thousand years and more

Climate change is speeding up

In the space of one day, we have gone

From below zero to 49 degrees.

And so last night, we had fog

In January

Something I would have thought impossible here

At 7,500 feet,

At the foot of mountains that dwarf those tiny hills of my childhood

Fog, and an east wind

And overnight, it crystallized

Tiny geometric fragments, perfect in design

White-hot ice

Closed around every branch, every leaf, every blade of dormant grass

At home, this would be spring

April

The catkins as fuzzy with snow-like crystals as with their own gentle covers

The branches weighted and freighted, white over silver gray

The willow by our old pond, the one where I was not allowed to play

Drooping, dropping, dripping, draping its ice-heavy branches

Gracefully over the surface of the earth

Like a frosted blanket

But no

This is here

And the fog has turned the high desert mountains into

My old home

Just for a day, a dawn

And like that child I was

I play in it,

Transported

Until my fingers turn to ice like the willow's gentle arms

A journey in time

In space

In season

In distance

Magic

Ajijaakwe