Nutritionally Lean

The road stretches ahead. Running North, home, to South, another home. The distance of friendship. The embrace of my wife acts as a bookend, an open ellipses … 675 km and 7 hours of driving. They follow me like floating leaves, companions down the Fraser and Thompson Rivers, spied out of the corners of my eye as I chase the dashed and solid lines of HWY 97.

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The word drought is dropped like nervous bread crumbs throughout the winter months. One here in a gas station at 2 AM. There in the cab of the semi-truck pulled over for a night’s rest. Another caught on the gently leaning grasses of high desert as the wind tugs and tugs. One has already started to decompose in the unseasonably warm compost bin behind the house. They are dropped by each of us. Wanderers and hermits alike who see the rivers are lower than they’ve ever been. The mountains spring green in the short days of winter. 800 years ago Dogen says “the green mountains are always walking…” and the bread crumbs line up like brail across the province asking, “have they learned to run away?”

                           friendly faces framed          

The other bookend is shrouded in big city lights. Within sight. A gated community without a gate, folds the car into its embrace. Visitor parking, one spot free 2 doors down from friends (family), family (friends), a guestroom (for me and the sewing machine) and warmth. A text home, I made it ok. A pause before the door, before the knock. Listen for the river. Hear the echo of cars as they stream through the nearby underpass. A bread crumb rolling like a tumbleweed towards the city, caught in the hustle and bustle of progress.

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