Beauty And Grace

"Long after the sun had gone down, I sat on a white mound of snow that had covered the old dry grass behind the cabin. I listened to the sound of my breathing. The earth turned and, on its axis, tilted a bit to the north. As wind from deep in the Alsek Valley rushed over me, pushing me into a tight ball, I heard the sound of geese. My father died alone last November so very far from here. I reached out my hand and touched the small cairn under which I sprinkled his ashes, and I whispered to him in the voice of a journeyman. The language between us is that of geese. It speaks of time and memory. It can be heard in the rivers and it travels on wings that carry the journeyman home and back again."

from: Conjectures of a Northern Journeyman