Summer 2019 — before
The trail to Roaring Creek smells like resin and warm needles. Ponderosas down low, then lodgepole all the way up. Dappled light, that kind of green that’s almost dark.
Squirrels in the canopy, a creek running thin from a dry June. We sit on a downed log and eat trail mix and listen to the wind move the upper branches. Nothing is happening. Everything is happening.