It’s a mezcal over fresh squeezed lime under the old moon.
It’s classic rock blasting from the neighbor’s day party through the thin air over the juniper fences into our kitchen and it’s Xmas colored chiles on breakfast burritos and it is the confusion of a left turn 2-lane option.
It is the flash of adobe swatches and it’s the Blood of Christ mountains watching over the cooling desert. It’s the highway Descansos with their tended blue and red and purple carnations.
It’s Frida’s gaze painted on quiet street corners with 400 year old trodden roads and the corn house still lighting the path of the Camino Real. It’s the estate sales signs each Saturday morning.
It is bolo ties and co-op greetings in the bulk aisle and it’s Diablo Canyon climbs and gingerly tweezing goat heads from the dog’s paw. It is local Instagram connections and long songs on long drives. It’s sticky ponderosa sap and pinyon chimney smoke. It is venomous creatures and prickly plants against the expansively soft colour palate.
It is always a flow of release and remember. Release and remember.
Release and remember.