A winding drive at 3AM, hot coffee, hot music, two coolers full of ice rattling in the back. I reached my glassing spot a full two hours before sunrise, sat in the cold and shivered until first light, dozing off in the needles and silence. Occasional lightning flashed from behind the range, hanging in thunderheads out in the deserts beyond. Sitting, listening, waiting for the sun.
In the pines, in the pines,
where the sun don’t ever shine,
I shivered the whole
And then golden light rising with birdsong; I sat long enough they payed me no mind and danced in the trees above me. I picked apart the hillsides with binoculars, memorizing every thicket and tangle of manzanita and pine and rock. Deer or not, I love this land and the early morning light, bearing quiet witness to the changing rhythm.