Here in this small corner of the world, with the warm winds’ arrival come days lived out of doors. Some of it is recreational, of course, but much of life here at spring’s end involves work: crops, gardens, livestock, hunting. Some of it is traditional, close to or actually ceremonial in nature, but it remains a form of labor nonetheless.
And it is one of the great gifts of this season, despite our current heat. The chance to work beneath a vaulted turquoise sky, to smell the sage upon the morning air, to walk and move and dance upon the earth in concert with sun and shadow, and to do so in comfort, lightly clothed — for lives lived at 7,500 feet above sea level, these are all blessings to be enjoyed in the moment.
Even when it’s work.
We spent much of the day outside already, installing most of the window screens. They will need to be removed again when we at last have time and little enough wind to prime and paint the frames, but for now, we can at last have the windows open without letting in half the local flying insect population. Throughout this week, we have spent at least some time each day working with the horses, prepping the earth, and otherwise making ready for other summer labors.
On this day, our small world here looks very nearly identical to the one depicted in today’s featured work, a small painting by Taos Pueblo master Frank Rain Leaf. From its description in the Other Artists: Wall Art gallery here on the site:
The Rabbit Hunt Painting
Traditionally-dressed tribal members on horseback participate in a rabbit hunt in the shadow of the mountain. Summer thunderheads tower above in the turquoise sky, the warm red earth beneath the horses’ hooves dotted with stones and silvery sage. Unframed; 8-5/8″ wide by 6″ high (dimensions approximate).
Acrylic on canvas stretched over wood
$225 + shipping, handling, and insurance
No, no hunt is on for today. There is no riding on horseback either, at least not for us; the horses were turned out to graze early, and have since returned to the cool shade of their stall. But the land matches perhaps better than we would wish: The fields beyond those planted with hay are a mix mostly of chamisa and sage, green-gray scrub dotting warm brown earth, but our near fields are usually green and, by now, hip-high.
This year, the hayfields are at least as brown as they are green, perfectly safe for free grazing despite the normally rich carbohydrate content of the alfalfa. The drought has seen to it that there is no water, and thus virtually no alfalfa, to be had.
The mountains are green, but they, too, show more brown than usual; there is precious little meadow land on the lower slopes. Every day, we are granted the gift of a new and different view of the peaks, but this year, I have seen faces of them, and upon them, that I have never seen before, a product of the newly-exposed earth. Our world here is dangerously dry, and it is only by the grace of the spirits and a newly elevated water table that our trees and red willow stands are thriving.
Even so, working out of doors is beautiful: The wind has shifted, blowing the smoke of distant wildfires in other directions, and the air has returned to its more usual clarity. The sky is one vast expanse of blue, somewhere between turquoise and cornflower. And like the sky in the painting, it is adorned at regular intervals with great white-capped thunderheads, towering skyscrapers to house if not the spirits, at least the rain for which we pray.
The forecast insists that the rain will arrive tomorrow — perhaps even tonight. If so, that will, for this moment, be the greatest gift of all. But rain or no, we are at last well into the season of warm winds and blue skies, and that, too, is a gift beyond price.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2018; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
