First, feel the sun against your back. Not scorching, not burning, but with enveloping warmth. Now scent the air, that end-of-summer smell, a chemistry of blackberries decaying on the vine, of dry earth cracking at the seams, the musty-rich scent of cottonwoods and the wet-green of new fescue. Now listen: the spirited hustle of treelimbs shivering in the wind, yellowed leaves rustling together with a thousand tiny voices. The rush and scrape of dry fronds filling the air, drowning out all but the sound of your own breath, rising to join the cacophony.
It is you and the mountain. You and the eagle. You and the churn of minutia below the soil. Sit down and let the grass sweep you clean.
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