It feels like sand in the air and and the bristly needles of every bush make raspy, rough sounds against my jeans. The ground feels deep. Much deeper than depth, like deep richness, full of soul and old blood. Dry in the wind, there are sounds, like birds, like voices, like calls. Cool in the lungs. I’m mindful of keeping my tread light. The scents are sharp and cut through one another. Crisp like danger and welcome.
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