Letter from the Editor

By Megan Crawford

When I close my eyes, I can hear the wind running through the trees. If you listen close enough, you can hear each individual leaf— laughter from the Aspen, whistling from the Spruce, sighs from the Willow. Carried on the wind are birdsongs: ok-ka-leee from the Red-winged Blackbird, chick-a-zee-zee from the Chickadee, hoo-hoo hooo from the Great Horned Owl at dusk.

The wind gathers the nectar of Peony blossoms, the last remaining Lilac blooms; the few songs left of spring. Now there are wild, gangly Strawberries, ruby-red and waiting for picking. It’s the season of late-afternoon thunderstorms; you can see the clouds roll in over the lake, down the mountains, nesting in the valley bed. The river has gone from emerald to mud to turquoise, still icy-cool from the glaciers upstream.

Spring has faded into the golden heat of summer— the Strawberry of Montana’s seasons; short-lived but free, sweet, sublime, like a drop of honey.

Sunlight until 11, daybreak at 5, the brightest tangle of stars between. Your clothes smell like river, campfire, trail, soil, hose water. The farmer’s markets are filled with a painter’s palette of vegetables, buckets of flowers— by the time you’re reading this, there’s probably a bowl of Flathead Cherries nearby. It’s all brought in by the wind, the rain, the relentless Montana sun, the dirt.

Listen— the Coyotes at night, Bumble Bees in the canola, Rainbow Trout cutting through the river— everywhere, something is happening. Let yourself be part of the magic.