Leaves are beginning to turn here in the back-of-beyond and, as my trusty Facebook Memories has informed me, that’s par for the course. A cold snap wandered through the Rockies night before last and powdered some higher peaks in the northern part of the state. It was cold last night and I had the first almost decent night’s sleep since I hurt my shoulder. I’m feeling tentatively, cautiously, shyly hopeful this morning — not “frothy as air” (?) but a little lighter in my heart. Even my sagacious plumber likes winter and for the same reasons I do — it’s quieter, slower, prettier. “I’ll take 20 below any day over 90 degrees,” he said as he made sure the snake went the right direction in my multi-directional sewer pipe. Long story.
It also looks like this year I might have enough fully ripened dried beans to make soup. Crazy. I have about a cup of beans from previous years and it looks like I might have enough from this year even after saving out seeds for next year. Bean soup is great but not easy to make here. Because of the altitude, the boiling point is low. I know the trick is soaking the beans overnight, but even then my neighbors have said it doesn’t always work. No idea, but I may give it a shot.
None of the beans has been passionately poetic this summer. T their focus has been on surviving a confusing spring and making beans. I respect them for this. They are their own poems as perhaps we all are. I think a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins might fit them best.
As Kingfishers Catch Fire
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.
P.S. Bear looks a little pinky/orange in the photo because of the smoke in the air and the angle of morning light.