I moved to the desert.
Or more accurately, a “dry continental climate bordering on a subtropical highland climate.”
Also known as the “high desert,” here ringed with lumbering mountains still tipped with snow. Glimpsing the mountainline is like glimpsing the moon: every time I fall still and silent. Every time is like the first—some things refuse to become familiar, even with repeated viewing.
I have been surprised by how gentle this high desert feels. Even when winds whip up cyclones of dust, even when rain is visiting in sheets, I sense an underlying calm. The sheer number of sunny days seems to create a comforting regularity, an inner knowing that everything will soon return to baseline. Everything will return to blue.
In the register of sky-blue days, I would like to name the past two as some of the bluest, goldenist, crispest, and sweetest to ever visit planet earth. When I most needed a rest, the weekend blossomed into a cloudless bastion of warm hues and sharp shadows. Curled in an armchair outside, I remembered how much my skin likes the sun, and perhaps even the sun likes my skin. It left a mark—and in the suddenly odd-looking light of the bathroom mirror, I find I have grown a shade darker. Or perhaps just shed a winter skin, revealing the summer child waiting within.
Also with seeming suddenness, the evenings are not so cold. I can remain in my favorite perch on the patio, watching the sun sink away behind the northwest wall (rudely ignoring my petitions to please stay a bit longer), until I am sitting under the authority of the constellation Cepheus. Then the moon swims higher and higher from the east: and I fall still and silent.