Southern sun on Northern lands,
fall gold on deeper greens.
Valley sky clear, rain washed blue,
a spot of calm surrounded
by demanding storm clouds.
White pillars reach to heaven in the West,
while ominous black
covers the mountains in the East.
Drive toward that source and
each cloud bank
is a dramatic announcer of
a mountain storm.
No lightening flashes or thundering threats
from a hard working snow dropper,
a George Stewart hero
in annual appearance.
Higher and higher,
darker and darker.
Truck dropped chunks of dirty snow
litter the West bound lane.
Trouble is just ahead,
but the sun is warm through the
car window.
The heater purrs
and still no storm
yet for me.
Grass Valley streets bend with glee
to tell tales of gold and Lola Montez.
Walk the streets and fell the bluster
of the wind.
The valley sun is gone
and Sierra bleak, black
covers the air with
threatening expectancy.
From the delights of the antique store
walk out into sleet, hail
and three O'Clock darkness.
Time for a Valley kid
to head home.
Introduce the car to snow,
reassure it
and head South and West.
Defrosters, wipers and heater working
soft, warm jazz playing
so nothing to fear.
Watch the slick road
and head home.
Leave the storm for
those who know it.
But then the theater of the absurd.
Nature gone surrealistic,
a definitional privilege
not easily gained.
In the West the sun shines,
and the black storm
in the mountains becomes
a backdrop for the light show.
Moving towers of white, full of holes,
cross the stage and provide golds
and reds
and silvers and beauty
for which
there are neither poets nor painters.
Change and change again,
spectacular as if the viewer
has no attentions span.
Then the Daliesque finale as
the gold, brown and yellow of fall
kissed valley oaks patched here and
there by a sun of the same hues.
A pastoral parchment painting
spotlighted by tourchlight.
A weathering ranch house becomes a screen
for the color show,
windows announcing
reflected warmth.
Over all too soon
and then the freeway is covered
by mountain traffic droppings
of the brown dirt
of a world washed by
a Thanksgiving snow.
A short whisper of clestial beauty
to be chersihed as long as
there is memory and perhaps beyond.