All Is Well

The forest begins to slow down as shadows lengthen.
An elegant Steller’s Jay sits atop the wooden slat fence
watching the sun’s triumphant departure. I whisper
a prayer of gratitude and in the midst of the sacred
moment, the Jay raises a song that surely speaks of
glory and praise. Wave after wave of melody echo
through the pine trees. And with the last note fading
into the dusk, a welcome hush melts over all the
majestic red stones that line the Mogollon Rim.

A beautiful silver squirrel darts by, slides to a
stop in thick pine needles in an effort to pick up
one more morsel of food from the plentiful earth.
His full-cheeked face looks my way once, quickly,
before he dashes off into the darkening shadows.
All the forest’s inhabitants, great and small,
prepare for the coming night. This creative
orchestration occurs day after day, in spite of
wars and floods and famines. The symphony of
wind and storm, sun and snow, the song of the
mountain’s birds define life, not we who think
ourselves wise.

Even as I write this word, the arrow-straight
golden pines bow ever so slightly to the last
shafts of light. They bid goodbyes, and they will
be waiting in the morning to rise playfully on
their tiptoes to reach the first passing clouds.
Until then, darkness spreads his big, black
cloak over the forest, gently, tenderly. All is
well. All is as it should be.