The ducks at the lake run along the shoreline. They quack at each other while walking in one single line; following tail to beak and flapping their black feathers.
It’s winter in Concho, Arizona. The gentle moving winds have dried the brown eyed Susans into a stiff dance. We walk into the gate of two metal poles. Bill breathes deeply with a Bach Sonata piece that he plays on his guitar. It is the moments that drive us here. We share the dead twigs that promise tomorrow will thrive with a new life.
In nature we roam and in its grace we are fulfilled and we are certain of her promise that it will rise again. The predictions and the cycles will be fulfilled. It is here where we put our trust. Among the old weeds; the hibernating animals, the humans who will boat here again, next time, in the future moments.
The sky is showcasing its new smoky pink clouds. For these moments, we have left the telephone poles on the other side of Highway 61 by the small gas station on Commercial Drive.
There is room in Concho to feel your own breath. There is sky that speaks to the moods we have forgotten about and can’t recognize at first, and the ones we have held on to and when they return we just smile.
We watch the dead flowers bend in the wind and remember last year; the one we waited to pass quickly so we could move on. But Concho will stay the same. Our past is welcomed and our now appears at Lake Concho and for the moments in the future.
On the surface of the lake I see the light that reflects unstoppable time. As moments connect and as we go on in a new and old life at one time, moment-to moment is all we have.