This is home. Beyond this sycamore sapling (which, grandparents, Chas can identify!) lies a limestone expanse covering hundreds of acres, porous with trails and itching with wildlife. I haven’t begun to scratch the surface on my true feelings of place here, mostly because I have grown accustomed to actually being there either with the children or with Damon. We scramble and hike with friends and kids, but mostly we run. Almost every morning.
This morning, as we craggled our way through the round pebble creekbed, now bone dry. Frost crept upon the stands of wildflowers, long since browned by summer’s hot draught. A curious carving of ice, easily mistaken for packing foam, glistened around the base of each weed. Layers upon layers of crystalline ice ribbons sheathed brown stem. I dislodged a dry column of webbed crystal. During the night, in a last defense against the harsh northern wind, each stem swelled and burst, and seeping slowly from the plant oozed all sap and life to form intricate whorls of feathery ice curls. Layer after layer melted into my red hand. Happy to prove to Damon that it wasn’t frozen dog pee, I wiped my hands and kept on running.
This, among all daily surprises I encounter here, is why I don’t do treadmills. And this, followed by Tacodeli’s agua de melon (2 glasses) and poblano, spinach and egg tacos (with a half cup of the sour cream+fresh jalapeno hot sauce) is one very big reason why I’d rather not move. But change is in the air….
Such a great writer.
Such a tease.
What with the breakfast tacos and the moving hint.
Do tell