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Every evening they gather in the nearby cottonwood trees in large flocks before flying up to Miranda Canyon to roost for the night. I call this the “magpie train,” although it might more aptly be called a river of birds. I don’t know where they go, exactly, up in the canyon, or why. It has to be colder up there, except perhaps near the old hot springs—warm springs, actually, almost tepid, but never frozen. I’d have to be waiting until well after dark to learn if that’s where they go, then hike back somehow with a flashlight.

There’s nothing the least bit enticing about being back in the hills after dark, of course. Beyond the canyon, there’s only mountains and forest for miles upon miles. Dirt roads, a few mountain villages, settlements strung along the valleys and such. Mainly one lonely two-lane, folks living lives most of us don’t see. But mostly just Nature, with all that implies.

And somewhere the magpies, asleep in the trees.

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There are places where there is no mud, and this is one of them. Taos Plaza, where Kit Carson and a group of fellow patriots protected the flag from Confederate sympathizers around the clock and did it for a long, long time. If I recall correctly, a post-Civil War decree or law is why the U.S. flag is never lowered here, supposedly the only place in America that has such dispensation. Normally one lowers the flag at sunset. If displayed at night, it has to be illuminated. The next time I’m on the Plaza after dark, I’d better take a look.

On the day I took this photo, the river of filthy slush in the shady street beyond reminded me of other places I was happy not to be, although I might as well have been, so huh. The day before we’d sat down in a coffee shop just off the Hotel La Fonda lobby [bottom right in photo] and had a lovely time. It was mostly very quiet. The double latte I gulped down spun the shiny gears inside my head while we watched the snow come tumbling down. A few tourists moved along the sidewalk, either much too fast or less than confidently. People often dress a certain way to come to Taos, no matter what the season, and you can always recognize them. Long gone native now, I’m spottable myself. In a few stores around the Plaza, I can get a discount just by walking in if there’s a local at the register.

It’s all too easy, and it’s all too hard. I feel at home here, but we haven’t really got one. Something like a metaphor for earthly life, eh?—so I should just relax and have another empanada with my latte. I’ll let you know about the flag.

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It snowed all day. It’s the middle of the evening now, and light snow is still coming down. There’s almost half a foot on the ground now, heavy wet stuff that’s really hard to shovel. I think it’s safe to say I’m tired of this, mainly because of our peculiar situation here.

Everything was fine by Taos standards until a few years ago when the county reclassified the two hundred yards of dirt road from our house to the stop sign as a “private” road. Who it’s supposed to belong to is anybody’s guess, and ever since the nuts and bolts of living here have kind of gone to hell. The condition of the road, even when it’s dry, imparts a grimness to one’s life. The place? Still cute, though, and do we ever have the wildlife: bobcats, foxes, raccoons, coyotes, birds, and every now and then a cow. Once a bear broke down a plum tree. We look right out on Taos Mountain. In the summer, it’s a gas.

When the road was regularly graded and plowed, what little snow remained melted into the ditches on either side and drained away. In the years since the county cut us loose, the road itself became the ditch and turns into a giant bog. This year the ground didn’t freeze before the first big snow. When it melted, things got bad. The storms have come fairly regularly this winter, and without a chance to dry, the road gets worse and worse. All the more galling when when one drives two minutes away and everything is fine!

We didn’t get our mail today because it never came. The mail lady must have freaked out at the road.* (She has before.) Tomorrow I’ll bust the car loose if I’m able. Carrying in wood, digging paths in the snow, finding ways to deal with all the mud so we can walk up to the car or just go feed the birds… It’s so much physical work to live like this. That we can do it (and have done so) is a point of pride, I guess. Driving through the slop to come home and hang wet laundry on racks beside the wood stove isn’t, but a change is gonna come.

Oh yeah. This year. About which I feel really good.

* Oops! She did come, just awfully late. Figures!

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Somehow I was up early enough to take this picture a few days ago. Who knows if the light breaking over the mountains here is any kind of portent, but I am having lots of fun formatting my new book for print. This interest in laying out a physical book is something of a first for me. Watch for Another Day in Paradise, coming soon, available in print and ebook versions.

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