Friday night, the western sky was a triumphant blaze, and I was nowhere near a camera. I had high hopes for Saturday morning, but the moment I got outside I knew the sky was perfectly clear, the sun would rise with the same kind of incandescence it's had for weeks and weeks of Saturdays.
The real story is that while I missed the last two Saturdays because of rain, some kind of royal emerald had flowed back into the landscape. So yesterday, for the first time in a year, the grasses were the story--and the film of green over the trees along the river. Life has returned.
Oh yeah--and that beaver who didn't notice me for awhile. He was busy taking a tree branch over to Iowa--I have no idea why. I'm told a beaver's intelligence is vastly overrated. We like to think of them as nature's finest engineers, when half the time they're relentless gnawing is both thoughtless and inconsequential. Why this guy decided to haul this branch across the river to Iowa, I'll never know. But once he saw me, that massive tail of his slapped the surface of the Big Sioux just as profoundly as a lodestone might have, dropped from a helicopter. The blessed branch floated back to South Dakota. Sorry about messing him up, but then that's what he gets for his silly paranoia.
The story of this Saturday morning is the proud wearing of the green.