But for a few distant, hearty shrieking birds, complete silence followed my sub-zero trek through knee-deep snow in ankle-high boots. Without evident pattern, one foot would merely skim a soft powder surface and the next would crunch heavily downward through an icy layer glazed gold by a setting sun.
It was the gold of pirates’ treasure, and the treasure of endless waves–striated sun and sky and sea, fields and mountains made nearly indistinguishable. A speck of me standing in one icy golden fold among it all.
To poet Robinson Jeffers, “The Treasure” is life more than life. A single life is but a “flash of activity” within the forever-cycling treasure.
A life decades longer than my husband’s is itself but “a notch of eternity,” though, to be sure, “nothing too tiresome”:
Mountains, a moment’s earth-waves rising and hollowing; the earth too’s an ephemerid; the stars—
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