Tangled

Sometimes you need to stand in the wind. Sun on your face, tangled hair be damned. To walk barefoot in the sand.

To sit on the steps and lean back, beer in hand and just breathe. Big, full belly breathing – the kind which calms and steadies the most nervous of hands.

Recognizing no demands except the bird asking to be heard, the fly asking to be swatted, and the warm summer asking you to stay.

I cross the rio where the Spaniards and Commanche crossed it and rode up the other side watching the clouds settle on the mountains like snow capped peaks across the horizon in Mexico. Slowly bleeding pink with the setting sun as if pierced by her very leaving.

Underfoot, rock and gravel crunch in rhythm like a drum beat that just won’t stop and a small scurrying in the brush catches my ear. A butterfly lands along the trail and flutters off in search of some nectar somewhere and the horse whinnies, tossing his head in the breeze.

This road I’m on is never really empty. I am never really alone in the answers I seek - in wondering what happens to the world after I leave it.

I think about that at times.

The moon is early tonight and sits like a giant hole in the still blue sky. Tempting and teasing as if you could just climb the steps of this mesa and walk through it into Narnia or some other equally fantastic place.

And in my mind I do.... I just do.