There are those times when I lunge wildly for the city, for something beyond the breadth of rural life. Having grown up in the sort of town that movie heroes leave behind, I wonder what it must be to gaze upon iconic places and buildings and to call that city home. Then too there is the cultural life, the galleries and concert spaces and bookstores, the creative and commercial energy welling up and making things happen.
But, inevitably, there rises a swell of longing for the silhouette of a Ponderosa pine limb against a cloudless sky; I am struck dumb by the sight of the Big Dipper suspended low over the distant mountains, transfixed by the greenish play of light through cedars and moss. Mountain heather catches my eye, and the silver arc of clouds backlit by the moon. I crave not always wilderness, exactly, but an abundance of natural life and the depth of experience conveyed by the natural world.
The trick of this duality has yet to be unraveled. I can only say that immersing myself in the details of nature feels something like love.
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