My friend and I hike around the 160 acrea homestead and discover treasures. The cozy writing studio perched high on the side of a hill guarded by golden aspen. The creek where he gathered water. Remains of the old Valdez trail. Hidden remnants of an ancient bridge which gave up it’s timbers for his cabin.
A fried ice cream kind of day, hot and cold at the same time. Sharp autumn wind thwarted by sunshine.
A small collection of treasured buildings and worn paths built by great American writer, John Haines. His ashes are at the top of the hill. His voice is in the leaves, poetry and prose.
I spend hours painting and listening to the music in the leaves.
music in the leaves
winds usher us away