Toward an Unreachable Horizon
A short story on not knowing how to truly care for the earth
I walk out the door at dusk toward an ocean horizon I will never reach. Darting across the blind curve of the Panoramic Highway and scurrying along the thin edged shoulder as a steady stream of cars hurtle past, I make my way to the path carved into the hill above Redwood Canyon. A maroon muffin wrapper glistens in the grass a few feet from where the path begins.
Is there is a word for the molestation of grass?
I mark the spot in my mind and tell myself I’ll pick it up on my way back home since, once again, I’ve forgotten the rubber gloves and trash bag I intend to carry in my pocket for such things. I want to, in some way, do my part.
An acacia branch brushes my cheek. I breathe deep, my shoulders relax, and my skin pimples with the subtle drop in temperature as I descend the rocky stairs to the little wooden bridge over the creek. Cool, dense air hovers here, year round. I hear the conversation of water, a full throated enthusiasm of rock speaking with recent rain. A small sound escapes from my mouth as if my body knows the language of what is being spoken and wants to join in with a mother tongue my mind has forgotten.
