there’s a spot along the road where I walk the dogs where the land curves just so that the wind moves up out of the canyon there, waves of mist rolling up out of the dark firs like an airy sea
the trees are lower there so you can get a glimpse of the forest below, shelter to deer and elk and coyotes and the cougar whose pawprints you sometimes find on the logging roads after it’s rained
in the autumn the creek runs high with rain, in the spring with snowmelt, always icy cold, hiding orange-red crawdads and snails smaller than the tip of my pinky finger in the rocks
wood sorrel grows thick along the logging roads (my parents always called it lemon clover, for its taste) and sometimes you find huckleberries, small and bright and wild
what to call this place? what to call my relationship to this place, without over-romanticizing, without reducing it in some way?
what to call a place, that is more than home?