~ From my Sketchbook Writings, Sunday March 20th 2011 ~
(At the summit of the Trinidad Head Trail)
(In the lightest rain the heavens could drop)
Up here the air is thick. Rich. Each mouthful a culinary experience. Up here the wind has tidied her kitchen, taming the brush into an orderly existence, perfectly uniform curves and closely shorn foliage.
I check in on my senses one by one, lest I'm overwhelmed with all this peak has to offer. When I open my mouth I can taste the sea. I detect a hint of sweetness from the sugared blooms, each pink saucer smaller than my fingernail, a tang that causes my jaw to clench from the years of detritus below my feet, a chalkiness from limestone grinding away, and finally a bright note that can only be attributed to the ten thousand trilliums raising their holy faces to the wind. My undeniably human odor is mixed in there too; I wonder if the sparrows sense me on the air, breath in all my idiosyncrasies, if my scent compliments the rich soup of this coastal air.