Lynne Saner

As fall advances into winter, I think of humid days, the buzz of hummingbird wings, the glory-feeling of an outdoor shower under the oak trees. I feel the dust and dirt that collect on my feet as I walk through the fields to pick tomatoes and beans and ground cherries. I see my dogs’ tongues hanging from  their mouths and drops of spit on the floor. I taste ice coffee and gazpacho and watermelon and berries. I think of sand and salt left on my skin when the ocean evaporates into the wind.

And then I think, what a miracle that I sit here, by the fire with a cup of hot tea in my hands, my feet stuffed into wool socks, hair dry like kindling, with the dark sky a blanket all around me.

What a miracle that I can be two places at once.