From the Mind of Trevor Stone

Yesterday's forecast was for "rain in the metro area, snow in the mountains." But in the clouds and all-day downpour it wasn't clear how disturbingly accurate that was.

This morning I began my commute by heading west from suburbia. The arched backs of the foothills were white, dotted by evergreen trees drying off from a shower. The front-most hills were merely sprinkled with powdered sugar, a green sweet loaf waiting for a hiker's dessert. The aptly named Red Rocks Amphitheater spread its auburn wavelength proudly, reminding passersby that soon the benches would replace the sky's deposit of snow with rock fans raising their arms and cries in a heavenly direction.

Heading north, I saw that Green Mountain had been rechristened White Mountain, a smooth blob of shortening atop seasonally lush green fields, the snow stopping approximately as the slope leveled. The drive up C-470 was not unlike a summer trip up Trail Ridge, but instead of passing the enchanting timber line I instead crossed an eerie snow line -- for a hundred yards the right side of the highway kissed the gossamer snow sheet.

The mountains stretched north from Golden, a white wall delineating the watered daily world from the snow-covered land of adventure. But Golden's guard to the east, South Table Mountain, sat resplendent in its green dress, not a speck of dandruff to be seen.

Some say that on Samhain the veil between the worlds is thinnest, that we may catch a glimpse to the other side. Yet this morning, early Beltane season, I have passed through the very edge of winter as I passed from one point of spring to another. Perhaps masculine and feminine are not blue and pink but white and green.