the doors of perception

Awakening from a daze, I find myself on foot in the Arroyo, again. Am I pushing further and further to find this place of transition, as in an addiction, or am I finding deeper thresholds to pass through? Over worked, my legs ache. The spring sun is intense – unadjusted, winter hide still browning, I’m blasted. Out of place, a desert sky hangs, still, above this tilted alluvial plain between my mountains and the Pacific. Doldrums between uncertain seasons – a strange emptiness lingers – like a ghost town, the doors of the tavern hang open, no wind or man to swing them. The earth and sky waiting on eternity.

Brown and Sycamore