tomales

I can still taste the land—the wide expanses; the cows and sheep; the way it lines up against the water.

The fence posts and wire that place themselves, askew, along the rolling hills.

The moist air that dips and dances at dawn and dusk.

The shifting light. How it changes the tenor of the grasses.

The salt.

That time I paddled to Hog Island in January, the cacophony of migrating birds.

The other time, when I paddled to the oyster farm and saw the bald eagle.

The inn with the view out the window that lasts all day, the little CD player, and the fake fireplace wall heater.

The creek on the way to that town in the middle of nowhere.

The little trail we found near it that time.

When I come back we will embrace and breathe each other in, like old friends that have been apart too long.

A tear will slip from our eyes, and something in our hearts will mend.

image by slav romanov