The sound of nothing becomes a constant here

at 6,000 feet: flies buzz, wind rustles treetops.

The heat wafts up from the draw. We feel slow.

Slow muscles. Slow to answer. Slow to think.

It’s almost like sleepwalking through our days.

There is hauling water, taking weather stats,

preparing meals. And always, there is watching

for fire; now we watch the sun go down, orange-yellow

light igniting the valley. The forest needs our eyes.

We see chipmunks, ravens, eagles, and hawks.

We see camp robbers and quail. Wild flowers are

abundant: paintbrush, Kinnikinnick, Oregon grape,

and tiny new green huckleberries. We eat together,

alone with flies buzzing in lazy circles. Yellow jackets,

grasshoppers, and a distant plane. Then silence–

loud in its assertiveness. Heat settles down and the

glow begins to fade. We call it a day.