I’ve moved from Fire Sky Ridge, into a place with friends that is not unpleasant, but I know I’m in a different world of The San Pedro: at 3 a.m. I stand barefoot in deep, soft litter of mesquite leaves, in the warm, velvet night. There are raindrops, but stars also twinkle through the canopy of the bosque outside the house so that one could think it is not the clouds, but the stars themselves who weep.
A Winter sky, arching over an Indian Summer day, the long, horizontal clouds overlapping and stacked like layers in a cake, brilliant white with their bottoms nearly black. The beauty above makes light the chore of sorting and cleaning the big truck to have it ready to pull trailer and steers to the packing house day after tomorrow.