May 1

Around the next bend, I’ve come to a lone pine and I am caught off guard by its simplicity as if deliberately crossing my path with intent it stands without hesitation to witness our congress and recognize my existence for as long as time lasts. There is a moment of gratitude here, singular, and in a flash it passes, but I remain, climbing to the ridge of Joaquin, on my way to Spanish Lake and the spring where he last watered his horse, then rode down to Cantua Creek, where he lost his head.