I rode my neighbors’ Peruvian Paso and Missouri Foxtrotter in the morning, all across the two track on the canyon edge — the river dazzling in turquoise and sapphire beneath us while the horses kicked up plumes of dust with their shambling, ice smooth gaits.  I still smell lightly of equine and sweat.

The sun is sinking through wildfire smoke, casting an unearthly glow on the sage, the rising moon, the endlessly curving faces of the fruit I am picking.  I am barefoot now, stepping on the sweet rot of apples fallen from the trees.  I taste a plum.  Then one more — yellow, deep purple and ruby red.  I’m sullen over missing the cherry crop.  Apples and pears drop to the ground, sporadically, landing with muted thumps in the dirt.  I can hardly believe all of this is ours.  I slap a mosquito dead on the back of my hand.  I run my fingers through the knots in my hair.  Tater barks out loud, for joy.  Me too.

I wish Robert could quit this fire season and come home to me so we might start in on making this place even more of a sanctuary, even more of a paradise.