“Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.”—John Muir
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They walked the Ocean Trail in day and view of mountains and the sea. Hills shone parched, a dried, cured green with spindled grasses of flaxen tan that sustained—dormant and surviving; turning int to themselves and reserves of their roots—until rain on the land returned.
To the west, sea shone in glint and glimmer of blue-green; undulant in movement and life of every wave and swell; sunlight’s shimmer over every surface-shift into horizon line.
So, too, light seemed to catch on her: shoulder tops and arms in make of steps, ponytail in soft swing, sway of her hips and behind through each full stride in fit of pants whose stretch and fabric caught and returned the sun.
He held in pace behind when trail narrowed in steep of slope, and when hillside and trail softened again, he returned to by her side; sunglass shade and hide of her eyes as she smiled forward-looking over world and path ahead.
Dryness of the land, water teased in salt scent and cool of sea, so near, even in air’s dry-blow. Closeness, patience, temperance in strain of the need—scent of her so near—strengthened the will and deepened the roots, sustaining mountains through aridity.
By her side, he walked in study of sea and land, and in dreamings of her.
She knew his mind drifted, saw more than what was there, into imaginings and creations.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“A story…” he answered simply. He was always thinking, dreaming—writing—stories.
You can make anything by writing. He’d read that recently. It was something he believed. For this, he wrote his stories. Writing, he composed ideals and almost truths from dreams and witnessings of life.
“I hope it’s beautiful,” she spoke.
“You’re in it,” he told and followed, “…that always helps.”
Her smile widened, brightening as scent-blow of the wind shimmered the sea and sounded through the brush in crinkle of aridity withered leaves.
Trail narrowed and she walked ahead, hands upon her head as, like sea, she caught and glimmered in every shift, breath-swell, and move.
He wrote it for the story, to touch and expand her spirit when she read as she affected his spirit then: expanded in wild-free amongst mountains and the sea.
(AT HOME)
