Longmont — Running up a trail I take a couple times a week, I hopped a few rocks around a father toddling up with his daughter, she 3 or 4 years old, I guessed. As I passed she said, “That’s a goo hikeh.” “Yes...
Flushing — It felt that way when you first moved there, not used to the humidity, and certainly, not used to the summer’s heat. Then you were so enamored with all the people everywhere, sweating and sticky too. ...
Vail — It’s the opposite of those photos everyone was so excited about a few weeks ago. Where that Swiss photographer dropped Manhattan into the Grand Canyon and lined up all the perspective points just so. ...
Bluegrass and lost and found on the radio (silver earring with a green bead, lost, blue water bottle, found).
New home, first snow.
When you've been out west, in high desert long enough, the city's humidity feels tropical, exciting.
A goo hiker.
Strangers I've run with: the girl with calves like rocket ships, the boy in neon and a red headband who waved.
The whole neighborhood is overgrown, untended.
On a park bench, a little ways away from a stranger, feeling the hum from his vocal chords through the bench, to my back.
A hundred barn swallows bobbed through the cut grass, sifting and lifting up again.
There was no reception in Sargent (formerly Marshall). There was the Tomichi Creek Trading Post and 24 people, including 2 families.
Summer of Turrell.
Loving Houston a little because of these trees. And because of (not in spite of) the heat.
A woman parked her scooter, set up a painting easel facing east. Bike commuters, bus riders, migrating slowly.
Standing under the day's hottest sun, side by side and tail to nose, swatting flies.
(Colorful) Colorado was the Buffalo Plains State, the Lead State, the Columbine State, the Rocky Mountain State, and Mother of Rivers.
A wind so steely, it leaves you warm and new.
A chorus of crickets has sprung up, protesting sudden heat and humidity, as thick and soporific as the air itself.
Pilots are celebrating. Socked in for days, the horizon is translucent again, like butter left out.
It is not even dark. The moon is not out. The sky is still full of periwinkle. But a coyote is howling.
At dinner we discussed the fox, the coyote, the bobcat. No one mentioned the moon.
Headed just a little farther west, into mountains and sky so big your smallness, in its clarity, ceases to matter.
Continuing our conversation about snakes,
I'm just sitting down to work, at the desk below a west facing window, in the basement of the house I grew up in.