Imbolc Valentine Moon
There are mountain sounds. The katabatic winds that flow from Mount Evans and its companions rush through the lodgepole pines, soughing and moaning as they head for the plains. In the fall during the elk rut the bugling of the elks, a strange and mournful cry echoes in the canyons. The swirling waters of snow fed mountain streams gurgle and gush their way over rocks and around corners. The cough of a mountain lion, the odd bark of the fox are not often heard, but they are distinctive.
Then, there is the antithesis. When snow falls, as it does right now, it muffles sound, brings silence in its wake. Quiet descends with the snowflakes. There are, too, those not infrequent moments in the forest when there is no wind, the streams flow by, no elks bugle, no birds are singing. The stolid presence of the lodgepoles and lower down the ponderosa, the aspen and the blue spruce highlight the steady, massive, soundless presence of upthrust rock.
All of these, and more, are the wonder of living among the Rockies.
