Drifting (To Where I Need To Be)

We have slipped away from the sun just a bit more.  Our array of stars now swirls to new locations each night.  The night shadows merge behind my sofa and within my jade plants.  Our nearest mountains—freshly tented-over with snow—look like ancient sailing ships set to sea upon a vast ocean of summer’s prairie grass.  The lights of distant homes and of small towns sparkle against the swells between.

We have drifted into a chill season, drifted toward our winter.  The day-skies are bluer, the nights brighter, colder.  For the last two days, a lone two-point buck mule deer has crossed soundlessly through my yard—no longer thrashing his antlers against the standing juniper.

We have all matured.

We have all pulled on our heavy coats.

Some of us need to be in a place where we can see our exhaled breath blossom pure white against the chilled air.  Some of us desire to stand there when the first snowflakes drifts upward just a little before finally settling and melting against the palm of an outstretched hand.

--Mitchell Hegman