welcome in

There’s a mellow up-and-downness on the hiking through the Johnson Ranch. The topography of the land takes and gives. The strong breeze cools, from around one bench, through the stand of oaks. I feel as if every one of the buzzards gliding on the currents above are my sisters. Saturday there must have been eight of them. The hardpack beneath my feet, step by step by step, appears to hold as sticky my badly worn orange shoes. I see and nearly taste the way the ground maintains me – keep on little traveler.

For me the day offers trades, though Saturday was mostly receiving. It’s longer periods than that, I think – four months; four years; the first fly ball I ever snagged while falling in a Little League’s right field.Taffy, my childhood companion, traded in for cats on the small streets in this trailer park. Some rub my leg, others a friendly distance. I wonder what they think about all the surrounding hills? Those mountains? Look Felix, Cloe, fun Cheshire – I climbed that one. To the very top.

I’m glad I’m not as social as those eight hawks circling in some funky rhythm above me, Saturday walk, walk, walk. Maybe if I was a bird it’d be different. ‘It’ as me. I might be different. I think I hope not.

I do love the land here on California’s central coast, and I swear it’s forever welcoming me with all its arms wide open.

I’d join the buzzards’ chorus if I knew the tune. If they gave me the sheet music.