A Thrum of Hum

The last touch of light warms my spine, my skin soaking in the angled rays. Pondersosa shadows lengthen on the upward slope across the Palouse river. Gracie sits by my feet, wanting to stay close this evening, frightened by the fireworks. I am standing in a long sliver of light, my shadow scattered on the leaves and limbs of the apple tree growing near the porch. I feel awake and centered, alive with quiet sensation in a gently shifting resonance of fluid emotion.

I begin speaking softly in a language that feels like home in all its odd waves and currents, a language I have never spoken in quite this way. I am telling the land a story, or perhaps the land is telling me a story, or perhaps there is no need for interpretation just now. The language is beautiful and captures me with its quiet intensity and flowing chks and unusual sounds. Gestures dance through my hands as if each vowel desires visual form. Emotion pours through the telling. Sadness and joy in equal measure float upon an ocean of sweet love cradling a wholeness of being. I am held in this state for five, six minutes, suspended, my observer wavering in and out.

The story is told and I stand silent in the golden light, savoring the lingering field. I feel on a cusp of knowing but everything is still too soft and formless to understand. The thrum of a hummingbird sounds about two feet behind me, hovering. The littlebird darts suddenly to my right, a few paces in front of me. For a moment it is the plainest of brown birds, but then it catches the setting light and becomes a shimmer of iridescent greens before disappearing in a line to the south.

I stand in wonder at the immense mystery.

Gracie whimpers, nudging my leg with her nose. Time to move inside.