What is intimacy? I ask the moon. I ask Mother Earth. I ask Douglas Firs and fields of irises and Ponderosa Pines pondering. I ask the furry ferns that grow nearly as tall as my chest. I ask them all because they seem to know better than a human.
I want your cool, rooted fingers to tickle the soles of my feet at dusk; send me a tendril of a twig, something soft, not like a pine needle.
Tickle your way through my toes and up my ankle, over my calf and encircle my shin. Blow with the wind and send chilled shivers up and down my spine. I could sleep beneath the stars every night.
Remind me how small I am. Remind me how infinite I am.
I flirt with the leaves, how they wave in the trees. Their rustling becomes the harmony to my voice, broken by the breaking of a stick.
How does one make love with a star?
We have a star here, this orb of light, eight light year minutes away from us. I know you are stars because you twinkle. Planets do not shine.
I push my nose into the crevices of ponderosa pine, breathing the sweet vanilla perfume to spritz my body. I relinquish my nose; it will only ever be a whiff.
I lie down amongst the irises, purple dragon heads with long tongues, and I watch as the tiger swallowtails fly close to me, try to sense who I am.
A moth smacks into my chest in the dark and rebounds off, glowing white.
Screech owls are rare, apparently, but I hear them every evening, and they coo me into dreams where giant, silver wolverines prowl through the forest.
There is fresh bear poop not too far from me in the morning.
The sign at the intersection was torn down in swipes, a claw? Angry. One thick, black hair of a bear is tucked inside the splintered wood.
Aspens are the baby hair of the forest. They grow soft, supple, fluffy in their limelight as they try to repopulate what was destroyed. Their bark is full of innocent eyes.
Even after nine years, the burnt remains leave ash on my hands when I touch the bark.
Small twin-spotted rattlesnake spotted in the tall grasses; once, twice, three times a dog nearly steps on its head and though it folds in on itself, the rattlesnake does not rattle. The rattlesnake does not bite.
Barking alerts to the presence of a black bear. He stares at us, staring at him, from a few hundred meters away. He is hidden behind a fallen log, the top half of his body visible. He is sitting on his haunches. Curious.
This building has held migrants in need of solace; it has held the border patrol agents who find the migrants. This building is locked up now. It doesn’t feel like a cozy cabin. Things have happened here.
Building 2 is also locked, on top of the mountain. It sits by the watchtower. It feels like comfort. No shadows of conflict are here.
Turkey Creek West. Booger Spring. Deer Spring. Bear Spring. Water is life. I walk the fifteen minutes to fetch the water. It drip, drip, drips from the rocky wall into my bottle. Minutes to fill a bottle. Minutes more to fill 3 liters. This is how water is meant to be gathered, appreciated, savored.
We thought the trail would improve. It didn’t. We’d made it thus far. Twenty minutes. Too late to turn around. Two and a half hours later. We’ve passed two groves of broken trees, scrambled with raspberry bushes scratching our knees, and stumbled up scree that tries to slip us down a mountain. Exhaustion.
Sleep on a slope. Slide down the mountain in your dreams. Never sleep. Never dream. The sky was my sleeping bag.
My mind has forgotten how to play chess.
Oats. Cheese. Crackers. Quinoa. Ramen. Rice Noodles. Coffee. Dates. Carrots. Peanut Butter. Energy Bars. Chocolate. Marshmallows. Graham Crackers. Cashews. Peanuts. Vegetable Tikka Masala. We brought too much. We are grateful even though our bodies hurt with the weight we will consume.
A saddle towards Finnicum Peak is completely bald. I want to run across it.
The peak is home to ladybugs mating. Thousands and thousands are here. They fly and crawl and search with lust. If only it was so easy, right now.
I am the sunrise. You are the sunset.
