If you’ve listened to selected shorts on PRI for awhile (http://www.wnyc.org/shows/shorts/), you’ve heard Roger Kellaway’s, “Come to the Meadow.” The music is lyrical, whimsical and evocative. I can see wildflowers and feel the wind in his composition. The music, for me, paints a spring song in the meadow, evergreen and blooming. Yet, when I found myself in The Meadows on a cold November morning, I was captivated by the patterns, shapes and lines of summer grasses, now glowing golden in the glorious morning light. Come to the meadow with me, on a glorious autumn morning. Bring Roger Kellaway, if you can. There are more seasons in the meadow than you might expect.
On the banks of a mountain stream, meadow grasses glow in the golden light of early morning.
Meadow grasses dip to drink from the mountain stream.
A small stream snakes through the golden meadow.
Shape, pattern, line and light emerge through a high-dynamic-range look into the meadow.
Bowing before the inevitability of winter, crested wheat grass form a congregation of followers praying for new life.
The Meadows glow in autumn’s golden morning light.
Waiting for wind, meadow weeds cling to seeds that will carry life to new meadows and pastures.
In the meadow, autumn wind and snow have not yet buried the seeds of spring growth.
Laden with the remnants of summer growth, autumn’s remnants glow with future promise.
Near the end of fall, the meadow grass, Common Teasel, is not so common.
Fall portends sleep and death, yet, in the meadow, among the teasel, there is hope for renewal.
Paradise is not so far away from meadow teasel in late autumn.
Crested wheat grass form patterns of light among a variety of meadow grasses.
Golden lights illuminates shapes and patterns in the meadow.
Crested wheat grass mixes with other meadow grasses.
On the banks of a meadow stream, fall leaves cover smooth stones.
Evergreen endures while deciduous trees prepare for winter.
Fall leaves cover the ground before winter snow buries the leaves.
7:45 am, 28 degrees, Thanksgiving morning, 5K run. I was the designated photographer as three of my children dragged me out of bed to take pictures of them running. Annual tradition. Most all of my family converged on our home for Thanksgiving. With so many people staying in our home, there hasn’t been much sleeping going on. I stayed up way too late. I was tired. I was cold. Then, the sun came up. The light hit the mountain tops and I thought about all the places I have been in the world this year, how many frequent flyer miles I have accrued, how many Marriott points I have, and, I was glad. Glad to be home. Home where the cold November mornings chill my breath. Home where the sun shines more often than not and the summer sun shines late and long. Home where my pillow fits my head and my bed has an indentation just my size. Home where my children come for Sunday dinners. Home where the sun rises over the Wasatch mountains to the east and Lone Peak Mountain lies north. Home, where I’m never lost and always loved. For these things and more I give thanks.
Early morning sun shines on Lone Peak, Wasatch Mountains, Utah.
They're Calling To Me 