Greetings from Daniels Park in Colorado.
Flew into DIA on the 4th of July and the air color matched the ground: a hundred shades of brown. The air smelled brown, too, that heady wood-burning smell that makes you crave s'mores and want to tell ghost stories. Except those Proustian memories of summer camp were more than a bit tempered by the knowledge that vast swaths of the state were ablaze, and the damage was considerably more traumatic than a charred marshmallow or two.
But over the weekend, the clouds moved in, and the weather felt more like Seattle than Denver. Sheets and sheets of rain.
One thing that you miss when you live in a flat place like Minneapolis is not just the views of mountains--majestic enough in their own right--but the way that rolling topography enhances the depth of light, the tangible texturedness of a place. From the top of this hill, we could see other hills and the rain and fog and clouds between them, delineating the distances and making the horizon not just a point on a two-dimensional scrim but something more layered and elusive and coy.
|Photo by Maren.|