On Sunday I took myself for a hike. My significant other tends to be a night person and I am the early riser. I didn't plan on going on a hike, but suddenly my body was pulling me in that direction. I threw on some clothes, sent a text message to him, so that when he woke, he'd know where I was. Off to the hills I went.
I had my notebook in my backpack and on the way down the hill, nestled in the quiet, I began to scribble down what little bit would trickle out in that moment and with a few additions, here is my Sunday:
Today is a day of pictures and still images in motion because I have no words for the beauty that surrounds me, for this place I call home. Wildflowers fill in the green hills in patches of yellow, white, purple; and orange poppies dolloped along the sides of the earth carefully placed like sprinkles of deliciousness. I hear crickets, birds chirping, wheat grass swaying in the wind; I see a hawk flying, woodpeckers flirting; the soft scents of spring and the freshness of the day waken my being.
It's best when I'm alone; the passerby in conversation create a ripple in the stillness. Eventually, I speed up enough to slow down–to only hear my feet press against the earth below me–sometimes gravel; sometimes the soft puff of grass for long stretches, grass that has grown over because of the rain.
The crystal blue reservoir in the near distance refreshes my senses.