Flatish rise top. Fire ring a size that can only be demonstrative, palo verdes cholla and scrub, sentinel saguaro not near enough for my admiring tastes, anyway. A clumsy tarp pitch rattles contrapuntally to Cass and Gary’s silent versions, droplets earlier, otherwise we’d be sighing under shimmering star pins, now the bounced by clouds lamps of Phoenix making shadows. Thinking of the razor edged white blues sparking the airliner rise over Manhattan yesterday, concentrating not on the distance but on how touchably close, a unity of space embraced by my coded continuous reactions even if not miles.
Half day purple grey backcloth, waded a still river, sand to rock to tiny stones like ones that might grind down distractions. Here in winter warmth, a State with memories of everything seeming new. Smell of rain on dirt that doesn’t get enough rain for the smell to have permanently washed away. Legs tired fidgety ache, perfectly so.