There was a fire in the La Sal mountains. It started as a lightening strike at the end of Castle Valley a thin gray plume of smoke. Then suddenly it caught hold of the updraft the one ravens ride where the valley turns on it's side and rises into the mountians. It roared and burned bright for two nights. The winds blew from the west and pushed the fire away from my cabins. I stayed safe under forest service orders down in Moab sleeping in some friends' Volkswagon. Good thing they have a fleet. I had house guests too. Paul and Natalie stayed in another. We spent the heat of the afternoons exploring new swimming holes and the dark cool book corner at the back of the thrift shop. I bought during the fire a small ancient trailer south of town.  It was built in the '30's. The owner and I never exchanged names. We agreed on a price half of what he asked and shook hands. He pulled it out of the weedy back lot into his driveway and repaired the hitch while I went into town to get some money. When the fire closure lifted I hitched it to my truck and drove it swaying license-less, and title-less into the mountains. I passed two sheriffs. They waved and drove on. Now I have a place to store my tools and camping gear and bike and another dream of a gypsy home on wheels.
All that time the badger was waiting to be skinned. Only the flies were happy with the slow tedious work of it as he was no longer freshly dead. I was meant to skin things. There is a tender intimacy connecting this me to some ancient beginning of the person I am, and the naked animal in my lap. I can taste the badger in my mouth now and feel my skull flatten.
If the wind had decided to howl down the mountain as it does when it brings winter snow my cabins would have burned like a thicker grove of pinyon and juniper.  I will think about that when I look up there now. This past month while I was gone a squirrel tore a bit of window screen and moved in. What a wonderful winter home she imagined she had found. Such an abundance of food and bedding material. But one of those great days, she pulled open the metal door to the dog's food and became trapped. When I went to feed the dogs the door was jammed. I took the container outside to see what was the matter and found the squirrel. She flew out and ran off. Gnomi brought her back broken necked and laid her on the doorstep. Later when I readied for bed I found squirrel droppings on my pillow. There was  one other sort of mystery.  Deep down between some boxes on the back porch there was a nest made perfect square from the shape of the space. In the nest were three desert seared bird skeletons buried almost hidden in their lost downy feathers. I put it just fit in an old wooden box with a hinged glass lid waiting all these years to hold this strange square nest. One of the dresser drawers had been filled with green Summer plants and acorns stored as winter fodder among my clothes. What a good thing the fire blew East

I love to live so high as to see far into the day ahead or the night if it is that time. I love a to see the earth curve away and more sky that anything else.

When I am somewhere, here or there, I am not good about thinking about any other place so there isn't much missing. I love the feeling of returning home.

There seem to be so many misunderstandings about passions in life. I would rather not imagine that any of mine are not understood.

I love words annd sometimes they aren't the right thing to use