The West

I miss the West.

I miss watching the sun creep slowly through the desert canyons, tracing the outline of the mountains sharp on the valley floor.

I miss the gentle breeze, warm sweet and dry. I miss the scent of orange blossoms.

I miss the wave of the grass, gently dancing, no blade following the motion of another.

I miss the pop of color across the hills, as wildflowers push forth in their glory, back in the sun for a day, and pass just as quickly.

I miss the wind in the rocks, mournfully wailing a song as timeless as the stones it caresses.

I miss a sky stretching from mountaintop to distant horizon, limited only by the feeble lens of the viewer trying to see into eternity.

I miss the spaces that stretch forever, where distance is measured in hours and days, not in blocks and minutes.

I miss the crash of water pouring over cliff faces, spread briefly in space and time only to join together and course silently across a lonely mountain valley.

I miss a storm in the distance, sheets of rain striking distance earth, ancient thunder rolling as the scent of water and earth and life eternal floats toward me and through me.

I miss the life measured not in millennia but in stretches of time unfathomable to my feeble understanding.

The earth first kissed me as a child, and I will carry that love with me until the day I die.

I miss the West.


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