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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