. . . me over.
Though I love my southern roots,
though I will always be a salt water and spanish moss kind of soul,
I could see myself visiting this land often.
Blazing horse hooves and four wheelers through the adobe dust,
eating my share of avocado flesh
and missing just enough the deep green of the tobacco fields.
This was a hazeless place.
Wild and clear-eyed without the weight of humidity.
My allergies disappeared for the entire week.
We slipped down Black Canyon and I put my feet in the
roaring waters of the Gunnison.
A shock of freshly melted snow
that only appeared gulf warm.
Everything here seemed to be of the grandest contrast.
We took in the sun and burned in the dry air.
Mistaking the steady breeze for a lack of heat.
We found and fell and, in the midst of that, forgot to fight.