It’s a thick, hot, hazy reality outside my door.
The Klamath River looks like a painter cleaned a brush of paint there – a flat, bright, unsettling green.
Fish are dying, sprinklers are cranking, ditches are ripping, and bureaucrats are doing nothing. Up the canyon, what would ordinarily be salmon redds are dry islands. People who love fish are coming together to get dams out and demand more cold water in our rivers. Carpools are being organized, protest signs made, banners dropped.
The mountains are on fire. My neighbors are evacuating. Roads are closed. It’s hard to see or think far ahead in these conditions.
Plums and beets need canning again. My feet hurt again.
My calendar reminds me of dates with landpartners and old friends and grant deadlines.
My hardrive is full, my computer tells me. I wonder how long I will be able to put that off.
At least there’s a wilderness next door and wonderful people to explore it with. At least there are shelves full of engaging books. And clean water in the creek, and a garden of good, organic food I helped to grow.