Visiting home in John Day, OR

Their tall shadowy forms loomed up in the moonlight like silvery green ghosts. And when I stepped outside to open the gate, the smell of juniper hit me like a wad of sour socks. The incessant crickets poured out their soul to the night, and I looked around recalling a vague recognition of nostalgia. It wasn’t where I grew up, but I could be fond of this place.

As we unloaded the suitcases, dad pointed out what appeared to be a hummingbird, flapping its wings over a shadowed flower. “It’s a moth, but see it’s long beak.” Strange how beautiful the insect was, and I looked down and saw a bleak white antler spread out over the garden. Beautiful in its stillness, and pitiful—collecting the moon’s rays in a primitive sort of sigh.