Camped on the border of the burn. It’s a good spot, hasn’t seen much human use: no toilet paper groundcover; no tire tracks; the can of Bud Light in the fire ring is faded and covered in fallen pine needles. The sun disappears behind the next sky island to the west while two Red-tails fly in to roost. It all is a borderland–burn and trees, the shift change between hawks and a Great Horned tuning up in the gulch behind, the snow lingers on the slopes but Yellow-eyed Juncos sing spring songs above little melt puddles…
Reading this makes me wish I’d known I’d be retired this Spring! I’d planned better.