Early Morning in Fog with Grey Fox on Oregon Dunes
In the beginning there was darkness. Then movement. As I moved, I knew my arms, my hands, and fingers as the joints rolled through time, one over another and gripped space. By the rustling wind, I knew my ears and a world beyond my shivering skin. Sand sprayed against sand and was slapped by grasses. By my breath I knew my nose and of the moisture that carries smell.
We moved blindly out until grey moved through the edge of darkness and I knew shape, light, sight. Morning permeated the veil of night.
Patterns took form around me as the world differentiated specter by specter seeking color. Mind arrived with the minds of others.
Wind drifts calmly, perpendicular to the spine of the great, slow being atop of which I ride. Dune it is called. They arrange themselves in shifting striations. They know themselves by the sculpting caress of the wind. She blows from the Northwest, where the waters stretch to the edge of another place.
Dunes speak, always. But they remember only when Wind is silent. She is gentle this morning. From the treeline came scratching and scrambling, ascending and descending, creatures of night and day, and ones whose world is on the edge between the two.
Dune says that Fox is here. Reliefs of delicate paws are strung as dots of darkness into the exhaling shadow. Fox is trotting to where Wind dwells and we follow. Among the grasses Fox stops. He tells us, “Here is another world. You know because I know.” Dune tells us that Mouse has a world here, that she was also here before the grey light. Fox, only briefly dismayed, did not find Mouse this morning. He trotted on toward the place where Wind dwells…