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.

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