2/30

Austin, Texas.
Spring falls out of the beaks of birds like a jungle. I wait below the oak trees just looking for the vines to start growing wild. When we drove down to Port Aransas for the very first time we took the 183 headed south and the land rolled out like a river bed. It was wildflower season and boy, did little LadyBird do us proud, all the colors sun-bursting their speckled beauty so the whole earth was the aftermath of an epic party. Every stalk of grass was a favored guest with a great big bag of confetti and all I wanted to do was marry that setting sun.

Seattle, Washington
Visiting the ice caves takes good guess work and weather charting. One must go late enough in spring that the snow on the ground is mostly melted, but early enough in the year that the caves are still worth marveling over. Once, we went too early in the spring; it found us falling waist deep into snow drifts,  laughing so we never got cold. I heard a river running nearby and was scared we would fall into it, scared we had drifted off the path we couldn't see because of the snow. Determined, you shook your head and kept on moving forward, knowing that I would not stand still to be left behind.  Another time it started to rain so hard we took shelter underneath big boulder tee-pees and I wondered what would happen if I kissed you. Or you me. Instead we found a bug to poke at and waited with aching knees for the rain to stop.

Tucson, Arizona
I saw my first saguaro cactus as a mere silhouette against the purple night sky and I clutched for my heart. Somebody told me it takes a saguaro cactus 100 years to grow their first arm. I do not recall if I ever bothered to verify that fact since I wanted to believe in it hard as the desert sun. Once, I read a story about a monsoon sweeping away a little boy. In Arizona the land shows all of its scars. The plants, even the most delicate flowers, have learned to grow terrible spines.