Every night I make my way home from town, via a local trail that navigates the zig-zag barriers between private properties, (somewhat makeshift paths like those made from cracks in ice, or lightning shapes through concrete).
6 miles through the woods in the dark (ceder, alder, and sword ferns are black memories of themselves : silhouetted arms that I watch reach over me) until I reach a small valley that separates me from my home.

Mowed and flattened, little planes often land and take flight from this tiny strip of field: one of the mansions looking down into the valley has a giant garage that holds these propellared insects.

I could follow the trail and it would eventually take me, in a roundabout, hound-infested sort of way up to my house, but instead I cross through the valley, turning off all my light gear so as not to be caught tresspassing. When I step out onto the well manicured grass, the sky suddenly opens up, and the Milky Way is close and bright, the North Star is like a beacon; somehow holding the memories of the long-dead who once navigated by its position in the sky.

Other shapes fill the black : clouds that pulse from the spotlight from the International Airport situated in another valley nearby - owls on silent wings - and then the manic laughter of Coyotes at my heels when I’m far enough away that they come out and sing their terrible songs.