Woke to the sound of the neighbor’s weed whacker after a long deep sleep. A beautiful, sunny morning. Had coffee on the porch swing, then went off to do a bit of reading and writing. Made more progress revising a story that’s bedeviled me for weeks, then called it quits in favor of a movie.
Highs in the 90s with lots of big cumulus clouds. A clear sky despite the new fire down in Canon City. The scar on the mountain is so green it’s hard to believe it’s almost July. Looks lush, compared to the foothills.
I remember moving here decades ago and wondering about that scar. Couldn’t believe it when I was told it was a gravel quarry. Not gold, not uranium, but ordinary gravel used by landscapers. A great big gash, right there on the face of the city.
I’m used to the scar now. But only in the way you get used to looking at yourself in the mirror. Eyes learning not to linger too long on the bad parts. Like Cormac McCarthy says, “Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”