the icy river water, for slipping on rocks and almost rolling my ankle, over and over
the sharp intake of breath upon immersion
kayaking until my shoulders ache
looking up at evergreen trees and quietly praying they won’t be cut down – that something or someone intervenes just in time
avoiding the locals and staying inside
saying “fuck it” and hiking in the snow
ordering weed online and the excitement of checking the mailbox
that air – clear, crisp, medicinal
seasons that scream at me, that bring me into sync with the planet
knowing that bears live in my backyard, and cougars, and birds, and mushrooms
fungi season
the feeling of being home, of touching the ground and knowing – in my bones – that this is the part of the world I came from, and that it’s the part of the world to which I’ll return, eventually, someday