Clarkia and wind poppies, toyon, laurel sumac, a hollyleaf cherry the size of an oak tree. A yucca spur in my calf and the scent of purple sage lingering on my fingers like superglue.
I scramble and pant and fall along these ridges that are set to be graded down 80 feet, I soak my head in the stream water and it slides down my back like a june bug, prickly velvet.
I sit and listen to the hum of the bees blending in with the 210, a hybrid composition, an ever-present reminder of the asphalt and gasoline and tire tread future that is looming.
I scrub my palms clean on the ground, the craggy soil feels like a rug burn and I push harder, the pebbles and dust and twigs pressing into me until my skin holds their impression, does a memory count if it only lasts for a second?
