Northern Lights

In an alien clan I trusted,
And in the Great Mojave I busted.

So now I turn the nose of my aged but trusty chariot toward the top of the compass, and the night-lit skies of home. How wonderful it will be, on a cold, clear night in January, to see the sky god's watercolors poured out and spreading across the inverted sable bowl which encloses the still, mirror-like waters of Puget Sound, that tranquil jewel of a small, sequestered, modest, and unassuming antechamber to the overwhelming infinitude of the roaring, relentless sea.

Stops along the way: Bakersfield, the southern door of California's Great Central Valley, whose pesticide-laden, stagnant air has become unfit for humans or animals or even plants; a way station in Northern California, perhaps Redding, perhaps Yreka, anyplace with a clean bed, a hot shower, and a wireless internet router; Woodburn, Oregon, where I'll reminisce with an old acquaintance I've not seen for 35 years or thereabouts. Then home, where the world is bright green, the air is damp and cool, and Neptune's devotees chase and sometimes catch the elusive salmon.

And there is peace; and there is a deep, deep quiet. And there I'll rest at last, in the bosom of family and longtime friends, and will be lost in the desert no more ever again.