Home is everything you can walk to.
― Jerry Spinelli, Stargirl
We trompse. It’s sort of a sacred cross between a traipse and a tromp, the joy of going off-trail and seeing where our feet take us. My boy is 14, and loves this wide, vast desert with his whole big heart. It’s Mother’s Day, and this is his present to me – a meandering, and the gift of his voice as he narrates the world through his eyes. These tracks are a night snake, now sleeping. Under this rock is a baby tarantula. He collects beetles, scorpions, a centipede with far too many legs. I am deeply enamored of the sky, the way the flushed-out quail doodle-bobber their way through the brush. The rush of the breeze as our last handful of winsome spring days sing.
The world – his world – is wide open. Waiting for new feet. His heavy snake-proof boots are ready. My mama heart is not, but I’m getting there, as I watch him mountain goat his way down each pebbled hill. This child, my first born, will be out on his own in just a handful of years. Out here, in his beloved wild, he is surefooted, safe, bold. I remember his first tiny drunken steps at 7 months, and smile into a glorious sun.
the lookout quail calls.
her babies scatter, leave
tiny footprints in sand.
Written for Bjorn’s Haibun Monday prompt at dVerse (late to the party). Come play!