The Girl in the Valley

There is a valley where the light is thick and golden, and it paints things soft and shining, like Midas’ touch.   In this valley they grow wine, and grapes cling to the branches in abundant bunches; lazy horses nibble the grass, their tails swinging gently.  In this valley the vineyards are laid out neat as a child’s train tracks, like a giant patchwork blanket.  It is called the Valley of the Moon.

 To this valley, a girl comes. She comes to escape the harsh loud world beyond the valley.  A strong, brave girl. But she is no Amazon, for her strength is cloaked in vulnerability. This girl has gentle curves like the hills,  but her eyes are fierce, fierce and dark. Someone once told her she had hair the color of mahogany. The girl is not tall, but like the lanky languorous trees of the valley she reaches for the sky.  She hopes someday to fall in love, but she also hopes someday to help others, other brave souls, to reach like she does. To reach for the butter yellow sun.

The valley calls to the girl.  It sings to her.  She wishes sometimes that she could sleep in  the twisting branches of her favorite Madrone tree, its heart red and bare and smooth, like hers.

The girl slips outside each morning, in the still brightness, and the door closes with a hush behind her. She stands on the stone patio outside her kitchen window, the girl, and she listens to the valley singing. Her feet get cold and pale and she shivers in her pajamas, but the thick honey light of the valley pours over her shoulders and she doesn't mind. She listens to the tall grasses whispering, talking of summers long past, and to the rustle of the trees. She feels a little lonely, then, but it’s a beautiful aching, a lovely and peaceful sadness.

The girl, the gentle warrior, she smiles each morning, a private smile, to herself, and then she feels content. And then the girl watches the hills bathe in the wash of the sun.