I took three walks on my first trip back in three months.

Three glorious excursions where I ambled so slowly,

they may qualify as the same walk. I had moments of bliss

in the canyon so fine that I almost dug a hole with my hands

to bury my body in the earth and fall into the sleep of myrtles

to live three hundred years and survive three major fires to

record in my rings. I measured strikes of lightning nearby in

uprooted trees. All around, I found old sounds stored in

broken crowns. Tree survival after lightning is not all by

chance. All living creatures have an evolved and buried

sense of humor. Dead trees as bones are poor conductors

as electric strands. I shed my fears like trees shed leaves

in laughter. I am home. I was wrong. Even if I don’t live here,

my ambles affirm my promise. I belong.