days and weekends then cumulative weeks in a landscape i’d never thought i’d crave. the past two years have been a corporeal reminder. i have more freckles today than i did mid-middle school. the desert is where an allergist once told me i should consider moving to. my beloved has a sleeve tattooed of cacti and arizona plants. yet being _ (a) in the heat b) grossly suburban c) surrounded by mediocre restaurants d) dependent on cars and air conditioning e) all of the above) were the very things i was outrunning when i moved to the pacific northwest. it’s confusing to say the least. i think about place all the time.

maybe the biggest evolution is that i’ve learned the importance of convalescence. something is different about time in the desert. here, i fall into a different rhythm. the sun slows me down, and i tire early and easily. i’m often up at sunrise to bring the dog into bed, and find myself floating in the pool at 3pm with a book and a little something in a koozie. i do a lot less, and this is significant to me, a person who creates pressure and busywork for myself to control the hours and minutes. i’m saying this like it’s all zen and posi—and it is!—but it’s also simultaneously very uncomfortable.

there are so many birds here. the mockingbird(s) have felt medicinal and spiritual since their arrival last spring. last may, a house finch made her nest in the light fixture outdoors; this time, i spotted a mourning dove situating small twigs on the ledge of a concrete wall under shrubs. i don’t want to scare her away by getting too close to what i know is there. a few days ago, two hummingbirds (mating/dueling/both?) battled a foot above my head like i was inanimate furniture. honing in on all these birds has been an extremely good practice for me in paying attention.

this week, i sketched a few of these recent visitors:

i hope you are all keeping well and stepping offline to listen to birds whenever you can.

xo,

rhienna