Down the path I see trees–weedy looking desert trees. I haven’t seen real trees like back home in Michigan since I was in California. Is it this way all through middle and southern Arizona?
Cacti, creosote, and then the trees: mesquite, palo verde, sweet acacia (which makes everyone sick in their sinuses). All self-contained and meagre, hardy, like you have to be just to survive in the desert. By their very foreignness, the desert inhabitants make me homesick for my past, for a vision of Michigan that exists only in my memory.
Then I walk close to a tree and, gazing in, I see the tangle of life and in the confusion I see that this is the way it is meant to be. Far off, the threads of memory, and up close, the everyday details.
For more on “small stones,” you can read my first post on the subject. It’s all about this: find a moment in which to be mindful and record it.