Yesterday I set out in search of something. Nothing specific that could be written into a list or told to a friend on the phone.

No, this something was bigger…

Like the warmth un-seemingly baked out of a cool morning’s oven.

Like the deep swell in my chest that rises and burns when someone holds me.

Like that easy rolling fog drifting up and out of the river valley…

So I drove past the right turn that would carry me home.

Over the bridge and through town, without a single thought of stamps needed and bills to be paid or the rice to be bought and beans to be made, without the usual check-ins for coffee and afternoon chatter on the season’s change and the town’s comings and goings.

No, I pressed onward until the buildings and parked cars and people were no longer in sight, replaced by a canopy of honey-tipped oaks, merlot stained maples, and cinnamon birch. A natural kaleidoscope of color, calling me further with every gentle whip, with each accelerated pull.

My mind, heavy from a week of things, shed layers as I climbed up and around each hillside until I was in it. Cradled in the deep swelling and easy rolling something…

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