Just a Moment December 06, 2002 - 3:27 p.m.

Around five a.m. this morning, I'm staring out the window in the backdoor.

I see hanging, dried, white sage (an Indian thing). Two yards and a field of perfect, untouched snow. Distant bald trees left vulnerable to the assault of our recent snowfall, evidence still remaining on the limbs. A moonless sky with a timeless orange glow. The orange canvas barely freckled with stars.

There's a tree immediately in front of the window, and lurking behind it's branches is the brightest star in the sky. The 'north star'. Or 'Sirius'.

It was completely quiet. The neighbor's dogs weren't barking. My animals were sleeping. There were no running cars that early. No airplanes overhead. Everything was still, as though I were looking at a photograph taken hundreds of years ago. Aged so much, no living person held its memories.

It's just one of those small moments where everything seems perfect, surreal, and still fragile.

For some reason or another, one of those moments that you'll always remember.

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