Montana Wolf

Friday, February 22, 2013

Sign Language

Humans once read the common language of plants and animals, deciphered scat, scrapes, prints and rubs.

We tracked the moon from silver-sliver new to mother's-milk full, women's calendar of ovulation and blood.

Food and fertility.

We heeded seasonal change, witnessed migrations and charted the sun's path south; the length and show of shadows.

This was our language.

We carried it in a satchel called instinct.

Now we read without breezes and the smell of rain, conjure senses through ink.

Words on pages, words on screens, words dis-connected from the sensuous.

Our experience one-dimensional, souls thirst for context more than man-mind-made.

The language of place -- the old growth ponderosa pine, round river stones, bellowing clouds, grizzly dens, bighorn speckled cliff sides -- we meet them and re-member.

Every thing speaks.

Hear the chorus of survival.


  1. I love the drumstick of light on the rock above the sheep, and the play of green near its center.

    1. "Drumstick of light," -- I first thought of my stick I use w/my drum. Then I realized what you met. I love it too!

  2. Great blog mom - love the look of your revamped website as well!

    1. Gracias, Datter. Now get back to your studies. lol

  3. Stunning views and wonderful words. I've sent a link to your blog to many of my friends and added a link to your blog from mine. Thanks for the comfort and joy your blog brings.

    1. Thank you! Solace, if not redemption, is found in the wild, is it not? So important, in these fragmented times, to re-member where our strength comes from. Blessings.