There was rain the in night and the morning began with welcoming, cool greys. Someone howling as the sun arrived. Howling as I stood tall to stretch and blink at the sodden clouds parting. The animal, as well as the clouds, found something else to do by the time a work crew showed up to clean trash from the riverside here. Maybe two dozen men in orange vests, garbage bags strapped to their belts and teamwork in their spirits, joking with each other in Spanish, English, spanglish, and I, parked directly in their path. They came toward me deliberate and wary, leaving plenty of space, making themselves small. The men avoid me, though I note that none ignore me entirely. I had been standing here and so I greet them first, looking each right in the eye as I do all unknown creatures. Like most animals, most of these ignored me and went about their business. They are humans though, and a few respond almost sheepishly, with gruff hellos and good mornings. One guy in particular smiled wide and genuine, looking relieved, but didn’t make a sound. I wonder if I reminded him of someone. Los hombres siguen y me pasan, cuando veo las camisetas naranjas en la espalda dicen “Prison Work Crew”. I watch them walk away along the shoreline in their amiable organized group. Several of these punished men continue to notice me for a while, too. As they fade from my hearing, their vests remaining beacons of their labor, a far-off train sounds its approach with several gloriously muffled cries of the horn. The day begun.

is it that your love is superficial? the world gives back what you give? two decades after your death it won’t matter that you’d lived. I want to offer hope, but my stores been dwindling a while. I dreamed I could be genuine but I’m gonna fake this smile. if you know someone lonely maybe send them a cute pic. we got thru a pandemic. it’s from loneliness we’re sick.

I have my panties on now. Up since 3AM I’ve been and not by choice. Though I suppose my body’s choosing is mine, in a way. The birds started up at 4, keeping each other company in the dark while I eavesdropped. The depths of dark faded to grey as I considered the countless ignorant exclusions, and that I am a teacher of children, not men. Old wounds act up in environments seeded with promises that never even sprout, much less bear fruit. Desires spoken but never pursued, like a half-built treehouse that was supposed to be a birthday present, unfinished and unsafe. A Uinta National Forest sign told me the hot springs is cooled by snowmelt still, thus my bathing suit rendered useless. Then, over green hills and snowy peaks—aux même temps!—came a proud bleached sun to relight spring. I changed my clothes and wondered about brotherhood. Later I used my pancakes to sop up my egg while the kid at the next table told her mother, “It sucks to suck.” The dad clapped back fast: “You would know.” I wondered then what it’s like having a dad who defends a mom, plays with his daughter. I read the same page several times over.

Moving on in every way, I found the road again and nearly drove off of it wondering if there were scrawny but somehow healthy-looking donkeys scattered in a lush and rocky field. I reasoned that illegal stopping is more legal than wrecking. Turns out shorn sheep look like weird grey deer. I continued driving, happily guzzling enough water to warrant a stop at every rest area. One had parked a twin Prius (to my Sorcha) sporting a little bandaid in the same front passenger side fender spot. How endearing, and strangely reassuring. Utterly by chance, and on a different highway, I stepped into the rest stop bathroom stall that has my favorite graffiti, which had been responded to poorly but not covered. I went to get my sharpie.

I missed many years of drought; arrived now is green brilliance the way leprechauns like it, amid so many floods like mirrors for mountains. This canvas of emerald with hints of yellow, sometimes teal, interspersed with stone and bold pointillist flecks—no pastels—in bunches of pink, purple, yellow, orange, red, blue. Every once in a while a watery smooth looking glass featuring inverted peaks interrupts this stunning landscape. I have been awake for twelve hours now, as the sun peeks through spring showers bursting quick and heavy, and welcome.

Toute aux même temps.

living alone has recently freaked me out for the first time. okay yeah i did need moral support at one point long ago when it was me or the bug. when i’ve not had a friend on hand, i’ve handled things. indeed, i once began then extinguished a small house fire with only a cat as witness. (RIP Cleo, super unrelated) but last week i painfully strained my thumb opening something. the thing got opened, at the ever-rising cost of the numerous successive containers i’ve stressed out my hands against since. not to mention the real ego boost of having to admit any truth about this injury when hiking, biking, climbing, and rafting are all part of our daily lives. how the fuck, you might ask, when all of that is part of your “daily life”, was this actually the injury? i will tell you: it is aging, my child. time on the planet. you might not have been bothered by any fears for a while: prepare yourself to live suspiciously. even a blueberry can come for me now, living alone. there’s no cat to eat me here. leave my body for the birds.

I’m grateful for my single cricket, and to Viv, who taught me to notice. For the great pale streak of fur that dashed through the nighttime across my path, then crouched where I couldn’t find it before rushing by again as I searched. The animal was silent, and I sneaked around a corner to spy it finally make its fluffy escape into the dark. I’m glad I told the sky my plans. Much more so when I caught it responding in quick streaks. Plans went, and well enough, then I returned home. A tree-sized burst of rich magenta blooms had appeared, bold and fragrant, in my absence. Tonight the cricket is hosting a whole bunch of friends.

I’m kicking you out if you aren’t gone by morning, I say to the poop stuck at the bowl’s most crucial, filthy point. There’s nothing cute about this but I jest, and I fight the urge to waste one of my precious few remaining evening nicotine buzzes on cleaning a fucking toilet. This particular turd can wait til morning. I’ll go ahead and brush my shoulders off besides, once that shitter is sparkling.

I was exhausted and glad to pull up to mindfulness class, arriving early, I thought, to a room full of people I hardly know whose presence there delighted me. Turns out I was late. Our activity this fourth week was to listen, and quietly hold space. It made me clammy and teary with too much feeling. I was exhausted and glad to pull away from mindfulness class at its conclusion.

I visited my post office box to empty it in case anything comes for whoever I am. This week’s catalog proclaiming womanhood, me again feeling a familiar pang of fear for the women who have owned this box before. May all of their boxes be healthier than this one stuffed with spandex and shapewear; there’s no room to breathe in the shame and synthetic of it all. Sometimes I pretend that Susan Hughes is a trans woman who when she lived in this tiny southwestern town was so closeted and denied as to invest in this doubling down of contempt. It’s nearly June and I dream of Susan, whoever she is, out there living with pride.

I know better, claro, but refuse to sulk about anything I cannot verify. Indeed, I would like to refuse to do anything about anything I cannot verify. In this I will endeavor. I can be completely sure of my own hunger now though, and want of nicotine. Things I’m trying to manage that refuse to obey. Here of course I must include my old narratives, so perfectly coiffed by years of repetition as to seem docile most of the time. Wolves in sheep’s clothing, though I wonder whether I could get sheep in line, either.

Today a white straight male colleague my age gave me space to address difficult feelings about a complex occasion. I said I felt like I was whining and he put a hand up, “I’ve gotta stop you right there. This is not whining.” A moment too wild for any of my own dreams.

Becoming oneself is like this.

I let them break my heart repeatedly. what do we know of love. she takes the beating regularly to keep her brother unharmed. he dialed 911 not knowing it was friends. they’ve gotta go to court now. is that better, in the end? use the tweezers on the splinter. I’ll drive to therapy. among the concepts undefined: love, and family.

My sunkissed nose and pale arms boast of winter’s farewell; we sweat now, in our wetsuits. Have you ever seen a Great Blue heron standing near its nest? Standing. In a tree. A Great Blue heron. Then, four adults near two nests just as we notice they swoop away. We can hear their wingbeats from here. These are rookeries along the Dolores River, which this year is brimming over pathways and into basements. This full waterway carries us ten miles per hour so that sometimes we can’t avoid running into the myriad wooden debris that has been washing down from mountains, our journeys combining on impact. Or the swamped young willow sprouts just reaching up out of the water, our boat adding injury to their insult. The breeze is warm in the canyon now and I can steer the rudder alright. We pull over in an eddy to eat lunch in the grass, spreading our life jackets for picnic blankets. One kid asks the group, “What’s your favorite day of the year?” And the lead teacher answers, “May 25, the last day of school.” Everyone appreciates this with a carefree kind of laughter. We have braved cold waters and now we enjoy the rewards of warmer days. There’s nothing like a bus load of sleeping teenagers heading home.

we used to flail to punk rock now we only sing the blues. he used to tell them stories now he only reads the news. I been trying to scoot closer but I know this is a cliff. if both sides want connection then who would be at risk. practicing forgiveness has found you in isolation. there’s no room for in-laws on their family vacation. do we tell them everything or let them realize. relentless desert wind gets real rough on the eyes. he didn’t understand what their conflict was about. when you’re done in there I’ll be right outside when you come out.