Freight trains of wind buoying tumbleweeds and dust through the yard, stalling my dreams of a Spotted Owl later on.
Shadows of Steller’s Jays, scolding their way upslope in the seasonal relocations.
Sparring Ruby-crowned Kinglets that flick their wings to the meter of scolding, namesake crest flaring in the backlight.
The spring’s first Painted Redstart setting song aloft from the sycamore below, its sultry tones of blue-black and scarlet dancing around brown leaves and white branches of sycamore.
Stumbling down-canyon in a place where the only trail was made by the feet of deer; bear; lion—feet whose paces were never stymied by vacuous sidewalks and smooth floors.
My movements are unevolved, crude, throwing the balance off stones and wavering across downfall.
The smoothest way to get downslope is to run with gravity.
It’s less damaging to allow movement than to cling to stability.