Big spaces and open roads only confirm what I already know, regarding my inability to find comfort in this conventional lifestyle that has taken over. The tent is a solid home, in that big and little hearts all sleep as one, and that one heart tends to rise and set with the sun as a new and stronger animal. I have little desire to watch games from the sidelines, but enjoy seeing the black and blue knees of my cactus-poked children as we play games with rocks and jackrabbits.

No better school exists than the mythology in the stars, the direction of the winds, and the roll of the ocean. And no better playground exists than puddles and piles of rocks. 

Hide and seek games in Santa Elena Canyon, however, can result in the worry that something could have gone wrong.

Everyone is found.

Things we find:

tracks
wonder
little animal
oyster fossils
a running man, looking to make sure of the empty hands of two strangers
paths
more rocks, that we love
daughter, wild girl
an embrace as an answer, fierce and not one to forget
an apology
a river
sun and shade
heat and cold
something blocking the throat, making it hard to swallow, with eyes about to spill over
quiet hand holding
slow steps