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| Fields of Green |
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| Fields of Gold |
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| Water |
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| just look at them thar hills |
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| horse heaven |
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| cricket heaven |
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| the road back home |
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| is there a possibility of any more food? |
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| my view at night... almost |
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| dog tired |
At this moment everything is poignant, which I believe is different from a poignant moment.
That is to say there are moments in which the light is fine, golden even, the crickets and kildeer are in tune, the wind has died to a soft breeze, and plants are in that heavenly moment in the middle of summer where they are still green and growing and not bowing to the effects of inevitable decline. The apples are ripening, the baby birds have flown the nest to attempt their own dips and rises in the hot thermal currents, the last of the monarchs are looking for a possible mate in a thinning population, most of whom have started to head south. I had forgotten how dry the air is here; I feel as if I should be wearing a babushka so my hair won't turn into straw and break off of my head, leaving me bald in the scorching sun. A Russian grandmother, not attractive in her dress, but wise in her attire. But I'm Californian, through and through, and plow on in my T-shirt, cargo pants, and small hiking backpack, up and down the hills of Idaho, coming upon a moment of poignancy in the early evening sundown with a great dog, Jasper, by my side looking up to me with trusting brown eyes asking me when is the next jump in a lake. Pics tomorrow. I've run out of wine and I'm dog tired, back at the cabin. Good night.
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