Hiss

Hiss.

Puffy coat. Hands tucked in pockets. Snot down the curl of lip.

Hiss.

You gave him two eyes. No smile, nothing. Two eyes, one second. Passing on the street.

Hiss. Hey baby.

He turns around. Follows. Puckers his lips. Makes kissing sounds. Pushes his tongue behind his teeth and pulls it across the roof of his mouth. Serpent.

Hey baby. Hey baby.

He yells at you. He slithers. Slithering. Hand circles the pocketknife. You unlock the safety in the warmth of your coat.

Baby. Hiss. Baby.

No. Your lips scream. You’re surprised at this voice. It bounces off brick buildings, dances with the snow. The streetlight turns red. A flake hits your bottom lip. You taste it. You turn. Two eyes, two eyes.

NO. You rejoice at these words. Let them melt with the snow, into ice. Cover the sidewalks like a stream. No, no, no.

The man turns. Smirks. Spits bitch.

The snow disappears before it meets the ground, gathers in the sky.

Two blocks later a trucks slows next to you. Window rolls, rolls, rolls. Hat-covered head out the space. Country music on the radio. He wants to buy you. He’s bought other girls on this street. He can’t differentiate. You’re all girls, bodies over ice. Ready to fall.

Fuck off. These words feel like you created them. Like no one’s ever said them before. They burn through your lips. They become buttons. Yes. No. Fuck off. Push, push, push. Speak, speak, speak. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

The truck pulls away, cigarette smoke circles into snow sky. The brake lights scream red at another curved body. You can’t hear her buttons. You can’t see her face. Her cheeks move across her shoulders like a dusting. Her golden hair grins. No one’s fallen yet. The truck pulls away. The snow puts the hill in a fog. You can only see so far.

Preserve

I carry the wood like a baby, coddled at the bend of my arm. Morning sun hits the neck. Wind tongues each cheek. Down the valley grey mountains hide in the thick of fog.
 
Pick up, cradle, carry.

I place the wood on top of her sisters and push her between cobwebs. Under windowsills. She lines the porch with the promise of warmth.

Stack, turn, repeat.

The storm moves in from the west—California, Nevada, Utah, here. A day until the snow arrives. It’s warm now and sweat tumbles down the spine. I take off my fleece, let the wood poke into my skin, break it open, rub into me. Splinter.

Weeks ago, I curled between Aspen trees, let gold leaves dangle over my face. I stepped over the blanket of fall, pure yellow paths cut between pines. I lay on the forest floor, rubbed my head into its dirt, threw off my top and let the sun meet all parts of me. I slept.

The porch is lined. Stacked with logs. Now, I cut.

I pull a log from the left—last year’s wood—and place it on the stump. I push my hands into small gloves. Hands around the maul. Bend the knees. Balance the body. Study the wood for natural splits. Bring the maul over the head. Swing.

It separates onto the porch. My hands gather the breakups and place them into a black bucket.

Weeks ago, I walked into black-ash trees, hit by summer fire. My hands caressed the limbs. My nose pushed into their centers, smelled the death of their burn. They shifted with the wind. Thin, dark torsos. Dead but swaying. Wildflowers took over the forest floor. Pinks, yellows, whites and purple pirouetted around the gone. I sat in this graveyard. I cried.

I carry the wood like a baby. I place it into the stove and rip cardboard into crooked rectangles. I tear into newspaper, with headlines of school shootings and smash it into balls. I swipe a match and watch the words take fire. The flames are moss green at their base. Yellow-burnt tips. The logs burn black. I think of the seasons.

The house smells of spirits. I dig into this sadness. Cut into this wood. I feel strength in my back.

Months ago, I arrived in these mountains. I stepped upon their ankles and stumbled through their forest. I felt my lungs struggle, my breath shorten, my lips thirsty. I hung onto trees for support, wrapped my bony fingers around them and pulled.

I gather the ashes with a small shovel and empty them into a silver container on the porch. The snow hits my face. The wind smacks the shovel. Wood ash drifts into night. 

Mornings

Apacha, your dog, approaches the bed and whimpers. Your body turns and slides off the mattress. Feet walk down the wooden hallway, hand twists the knob to the north-facing porch. Brisk air licks the skin. Apacha steps out into still-black morning. Legs climb back into bed. Body fades and shuts until pink and yellow light take over the room. Up. Chop apples into curled wedges, pull long carrots from the fridge. Put both in bag. Bag in hand. Boots on feet. Feet on dewy earth. Admire surroundings. Mountain air in lungs. Lungs in body.

The bigger miniature donkey hee-haws then mounts the smaller miniature donkey. Good morning to you too. Two sturdy, old horses approach the fence and poke their noses into the plastic bag in hand. Pull out two carrots and let their mouths chew with their gums. Smell the ground on their face. Donkeys get apples. Their swollen, sweet heads tilt through the fence. Horse noses bonk your shoulder. The grey-dusted one wants another carrot. It glides into his mouth. The brown one shifts away from the others. Follow him with a carrot. The sheep yell. Bah, bah, bahhing. They wait, impatiently, at their gate.

The bag is empty. Fill the trough until it's spilling with water. Tell Apacha stay. He's nestled into the ground, blending with the tall, gold grass. Amber eyes follow. Yellow lines follow. Black globes follow. Follow the sun-drawn shadow to the pen. Unhook bottom latch. Unhook top latch. Pull open. Step back. Watch five earth-toned bodies--sand, dirt and night--hop out and run down the driveway. Apacha watches them. Watch Apacha. Stay.

Pull the pocket knife from the pocket. Cut into the bales of hay. Pull out six flakes. Disperse into three piles. Hop onto a fence post and push the hay off the sweater. Pull it from shirt, bra. Watch the equines lift hay into their mouths. Listen to this sound--the satisfaction of swallowing, the simpleness. Watch the day turn blue. Bold, vulnerable blue. No cloud. Naked blue. Swim in this blue. Swallow this blue. Sit on that fence post for longer than expected. There is nothing else to do. No one to respond to. This is your place right now. This spot on this post. Listen. Listen. The blue bird flutters into blue sky. 

Apacha approaches the other side of the fence, sits on the ground and looks at you. Expectantly. Whimpers. Okay, okay. Respond to him. Hop over the fence. Fill two buckets with water for the sheep. Unhook the latch to the pasture and walk the fence line. Watch Apacha sniff. Watch him test bits of horseshit in his mouth. He jogs to you. Watch the age in his hips. His two back legs come together as one. Hop, hop, hop. Watch his tongue flap from the side of his mouth. Walk into silver-tree limbs. Walk into pines decorated with the last of the aspen leaves. Christmas trees. Golden globes. Inhale the forest. Caress pine needles. 

Walk to the stream. Pick up feathers. Pick up bones. Hold them. Hold the life they were before. The strength they give now. Finger them in your pocket.

You are living.

Watch Apacha dip into stream and take long licks of it. Stand there at the perimeter. Rub the bones in your pocket. Swim in the naked sky. Stand still.

Write lines in your head for when the night turns into star dots.
Write lines you'll forget by the time you get back. 

Align the bones into new bodies. Put the feathers above your bed.

Fill the kettle with water. Grind coffee beans.

Snap.

The sky is blue glass.

It is the mixing bowl my mom uses to whip eggs with cream for omlettes.  The electric sapphire marbles my dad puts on the bottom of clear vases for yellow flowers.  The little snippets of glass my sister found on the beach when she was young and kept in a jar to share with her kids when she was older. The broken bottles my brother and I dug up in the woods by our house and cleaned out with warm water and put on our windowsills.

It is the perfect sky. It is the perfect night.

The air feels warm on the skin, the first time since last October. I take Apacha with me to run to the grocery, an attempt to hang out since I have been out of the house all day. He likes riding in cars. He knows cars lead to parks and hikes and adventures. I was going to zip home after the grocery to work on an essay due for class tomorrow, but as we come close to Frick I can't keep my eyes off the blue glass sky. My windows are down and the warm evening air lingers and swirls around us with temptation.

I want to see the view from the bench at night. I imagine the dots of homes on the rolling hills of Pittsburgh will be filled with families finishing dinner and settling into a book or a television show. I want to see the headlights of the cars moving from one place to another. I want to watch the smoke from the nearby factories disappear into the blue glass. Apacha wants all this too--a night adventure through Frick.

We only see a couple of people at the entrance of the park, and they are all leaving. Once again, Apacha and I have the park to ourselves. The sky is in the middle of light and dark, it seems it wants to stay in this day, this time, this near perfection.

As we walk down the hill, I call Matt who is traveling from Boulder to me. He is in Kansas. I wonder what his sky looks like as he drives the open, flat land. Apacha runs ahead as I talk to Matt. Together we are all looking at the sky. Matt asks me what my favorite cheese is, a question I had just asked him while I was at the grocery.

Apacha runs down the hill. He is about a hundred feet in front of me. I step the hill slowly, lost in the conversation with Matt, looking to the sky, admiring its rich blue hues. A soft breeze plays the air and the silhouettes of the limbs of the trees move strategically to its melody. My eyes swallow it up. Sometimes, it's too beautiful. I could just look and look and get lost in it all for hours.

My eyes scan the horizon for Apacha. They find the outline of a black creature. Apacha sees it too and he is only a few feet from it.

"Fuck," I yell, "Apacha NO!"

The creature freezes as Apacha pounces over.  His wildness takes over. He becomes another animal, an animal with intent to snap a neck and kill.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Hold on Matt. APACHA NO. Drop it."

My body runs, no sprints towards the scene. I don't know what Apacha has in his mouth but he is thrashing it around like a beast. The creature's neck in Apacha's jaw. The juxtaposition of the two is maddening. The creature plays dead and hangs limp from Apacha's alive and hungry mouth.

When I get to them I see the raccoon's eyes. I throw Apacha's leash down right next to him to startle and bring him out of the moment. Apacha notices but does not release the coon. I spank Apacha on his butt and grab his collar. The coon falls from his mouth.  It plops on the ground, lifeless but not dead. I move Apacha into the grass and make him lay too. I have to show power over the situation even though I am crying. Both animals are motionless under the blue glass. One with fear in his eyes and the other with the pure satisfaction of a catch. Although Apacha is in trouble with me, he is proud of himself, his second catch in our time together, the first being a rooster on a farm I worked at last summer in Belfast, Maine. 

I don't know what to do. The raccoon moves his frame a bit. It is startled and shocked. The beast still lingers. I get Matt back on the phone.

"Fuck. I don't know what to do."

I am starting to panic for the raccoon. I don't want him to die. His little grey highlighted eyes rest in my mind. He is cute and innocent. He was probably just coming out of the woods for the evening, waking up for his day under the moon.

Matt calms me down and makes some suggestions. Get Apacha out of there. Call animal control. Is there anyone else around? Does the raccoon look rabid? Did Apacha get bit? Is there any blood?

"I don't know. Apacha has his rabies shot. He's fine, I'm worried about the raccoon."

The sky moves from blue glass to a deep navy. I can't really see anything. I just see the reflection of the raccoon's eyes in woods. He doesn't move. I hang up with Matt and call my roommate Maggie. She doesn't answer. I look up the number for animal control. Maggie calls back. She can sense the panic in my voice that shakes as I retell the story. She suggests calling animal control too, reiterating it wouldn't hurt. She offers to come to the park.

"It's okay. I'm going to call animal control."

I hang up with Maggie and call animal control.  A man answers and seems distracted.

"Animal control."

"I would like to report a raccoon that appears to be hurt at Frick park."

I lie to the man. I don't tell him that my dog attacked the raccoon. 

"Where are you in the park?" the man asks.

I try to explain the location--down the treeline, off the path, across from the section that breaks off and goes to the dog park. The man can't pinpoint where I am. I explain again.

"So you are close to the dog park?" he wonders. He still seems distracted.

"No, I am down the hill across from the path that leads to the dog park."

"Where is the racoon?"

I had distanced Apacha and I from the raccoon and the farther away we got the more the raccoon hobbled back into the woods.

"A couple feet back from the treeline."

Explaining our location in the dark to a man who seemed disinterested was frustrating me more.

"What's your phone number?" he asks.

I give it to him, and he says they will call when they get there, though he doesn't know when that will be.

"How long?" I wonder.

"I don't know. It could be an hour. Could be more."

It is dark now and I know I can't wait around until they get there.

I decide to head back to my car to get Apacha out of the scene and wait there for a little bit. I wait for about twenty minutes and head home. They never call.

On the drive home, I think about the situation. I think about Apacha's instincts, his wildness. If I were completely removed from the situation and this was in the wild, nature would have been taking its course. But here, now, I have to intervene. I cannot stand by and watch my dog kill another creature. Even though it is what he wants, it is not what I want to see or experience. I think about natural order and how if it were up to Apacha he would hunt and gather for himself. He would tear into raccoons, and rabbits and chickens.  His head would align evenly with the rest of his body as he stalks his prey, then pounce on them to take them by the neck and snap and kill and devour.

But he is not that animal with me.

Do I take away from his wildness?

Strategic placements.

How did we get here?
Boots stuck with mud
at the rim of the hole,
the burial place for growth.

In the dirt we put the dead.
In the dirt we plant the roots.
In the dirt they intertwine.
Life. Death. Swelling underneath the boot.

If the world has a heartbeat, it is the dirt. Underneath the skin of the earth, the dirt churns us alive. It keeps us growing. A heartbeat you can pick up and let slide between your fingertips. Letting the smell rest on the palm. The piney, rooted scent of earth.

Thump, thump.

The goodness comes from the ground. 
What we plant is what we see.
The sky drips the blood of the heart
and the rain wakes up the dirt
ready for Spring. 

As Apacha and I pull up to Frick, rain starts to pelt the windshield. I put the car in park and turn off the music so we can listen to the sound of the rain meeting our surroundings. Little drops move all around us. My car, our shelter. I look back at Apacha who is sitting up in the back seat looking out the window, eager to get outside. I sit for a second, pondering the situation. In one direction, the sky is charcoal colored, fading into a deeper gray. In the other, a pale yellow peeks through low hanging clouds. We will either get drenched or watch the sun birth from the clouds. Apacha begins to whimper in the back. And so the decision is made.

I step out of the car and look up to the sky. We are directly underneath the intersection of the rain and the sun. The drips run down my face and my body charges in this release from the sky. I open Apacha's door and he hops right out. The rain picks up as we head to the bench, but the sky over the section of the park where the bench is located is the pale yellow. Its color pulls us along. I observe many people starting to exit the park--the rain had shooed them away. But it feels so good on my face. The night before was spent inside a crowded restaurant navigating the crowd of bar patrons with pointed elbows. Here, now rain is creating all this space between the land and me. I let my body be as fluid as the rain and relax. I feel free.

I think back to a vivid memory back when I was eighteen or nineteen. I was at a friends house. It must of been spring--April or May. A group of us were sitting outside in fold out chairs and on a picnic table. The grill was fired and smoking. Suddenly, an urgent rain took over the backyard. Everyone ran inside for cover but my friend Brett and me. We stood up and squeezed our eyes shut and let the rain overtake our bodies. Its pelts stung the skin a bit, but it rejuvenated our beings. Our friends yelled at us from inside, calling us hippies and weirdos for staying out in the rain. We just laughed at them and started dancing. We hopped up on the picnic table and let our bodies move as quickly and as suddenly as the rain. After a while, we went inside and changed into dry clothes. But the rain stuck with us. The rest of the night, Brett and I kept talking about how refreshed we felt.

And I think this now, as I move through the park, the rain moving down my body, contouring my shape as it slips down my frame to meet the earth, the ground and feed the dirt. All this feeling of renewal is justified. Spring is here. This is the season of renewal and regrowth. The season of sprouting and spreading. The earth is reawaking from winter slumbers. She is ready to blossom and inspire. And so am I.

Apacha and I stay on the paved path today, as the hills are wet with sticky mud. As we walk, I notice holes dug into the earth on the hill to our left. Next to each of the holes are baby fir pines, ready to be planted. They are strategically placed along the already grown treeline. Throughout the walk, I will notice all these trees ready to be planted. It seems a little strange to me. I haven't really witnessed this before in the park--the pre-planning of trees. The strategic placement. All throughout out the park, trees lay on their sides, their roots tucked into a little bulb and covered with a canvas sack. This isn't natural. This is planned. The whole layout of the park has been thought out by somebody. The positioning of trees, the placement of benches, the clear cut of land that once was forest.

There they rest, pine poking dirt,
the nutrients of the leaves disintegrating into their needle skins 
their vertical limbs out of place, as they should be upward
racing towards the sun. But they are fallen. Better yet, placed. 
My boney fingers yearn to pick up their frames and root them into the earth,
slowly gathering the dirt for their growth. Where they belong.
Or do they?

Does nature belong where we place it? Does it need our guidance? Our hands? Our man made structures to help it grow up right? Or would it be better off without us, growing or dying within its own will?

We are here amongst it. We find our ways to coexist. It is strange to see evidence of this. We visit parks and admire the trees. We breath their oxygen. We take what we can and hopefully this is a mutual relationship. We feed these trees with the soil we (parks and recreation) churn.

The bench rests amongst all these preparations. Behind the bench are the mounds of stone, gravel, sand and mulch to sprinkle throughout the park. These are the piles that were covered by snow all winter. These are the piles Apacha and I had climbed and slid the past couple of months. Now they are ready to serve their purpose. They are ready to fertilize and cover the grounds of the park for the growth of the Spring.

 Everything has a purpose in this park. 
As I sit and scribble, this bench is serving its purpose. 
It holds my frame amongst its frame. 
As we walk the paths, 
the gravel intercepts the dirt from 
boots and paws.
The trees take the eyes with wonderment,
as I study their beauty and peel their bark
and sniff its scent like a curious dog. 

The sky is clear now, the pale yellow spread the horizon like the drip of a watercolor, 
slowly spreading yellow with each stroke. 
We keep moving under the freshly painted sun.
It blushes the cheek. 

The sun peeps through the lingering clouds and the dirt gulps up the rain. Apacha and I walk on, taking a back path through the woods and notice more and more of these holes ready for planting or already planted trees circled by stakes and chicken wire to make sure the babies grow upright.

Within shelter is a growing shelter.

I try to take a panorama of my boots walking--a failed attempt. But I like imperfection.
And that's what I think about nature,  I like the imperfections, the dented shapes, trees growing out of stumps. The hiccups. And here at the park, I don't see many. The trees stand tall in unison, shooting toward the sun, ready for renewal.

Her boots hit the gravel and suddenly she was covered in dirt.

Violations.

This sign used to make me laugh.

And it still kind of does. Kind of.

Every time I pass this sign on the way to the bench, an image of enthusiastic, outdoorsy dog-loving individuals crowding prison creeps in my mind. An image of moms and dads and brothers and sisters and children lumped together in a jail cell chatting about the weather, the redundancy of the snow, or how many dogs they have waiting back home. Dogs waiting patiently for those long thirty days to be over. Dogs waiting by the door, day after day after day, listening for the little jaded ridges of the house key to slip into the lock and open. To be reunited with their owner.

Then, I realize this isn't really funny. This is actually a quite ridiculous thought. It is also a quite accurate thought. Of course, the people in prison are moms and dads and brothers and sisters and children. They are dog owners and they are most likely talking about the weather, counting down the days until their sentence is over, waiting for their release back into society. Waiting to inhale and exhale and breathe a dolup of crisp, almost spring air. 

The thoughts of prison are fresh in my mind this week because of a presentation I saw last week. Piper Kerman came to Chatham to speak about her book, Orange is the New Black, which is a more popular Netflix TV show. She spent over a year in prison and wrote about  her experience. She is a strong advocate for prison reform, and sadly, the new, fresh face of prisoners because of the popularity of the TV show. She is white (representing 18% of prison population--the other 65% is black and 16% latino) and comes from a solid middle class upbringing. Majority of prisoners aren't white and come from the lower class. She acknowledged that her time was a "fish out of water," experience. 

I admit I have little to no knowledge on prison life. I only know the facts that were presented last week and through the conversations and little blurbs I have read or heard on the news. The facts from last week's presentation that stick out--

• Since the 80s, prison population has increased by 800%.
• In 1980, nationwide, there were 500,000 prisoners.
• Today there are 2.3 million.
• Most of the prisoners are in (for many years and sometimes life) for nonviolent offenses to do with drug possession or dealing.
• In 30 states, a woman prisoner delivering a baby is shackled during childbirth and most often does not get to see her baby after delivery.

I type these things because I am disgusted by the way our society treats prisoners. I am disgusted with myself for my lack of knowledge on this subject. For my own stereotypes of prisoners. For how easy it is to not think about it. To lock them away and out of place in society and in our minds. So much money pumps into the prison system that could be used in other ways--education, reform, mental health, prison release programs. 

We had a discussion in class after Piper's presentation (try saying that ten times fast.) We talked about our disgusts with the prison system, our feeling of helplessness (How can we help? What can we do?) We talked about how Piper is not the face of prisoners, but somehow because of her class and race she gained readers and viewers. She shares her story with millions of other prisoners, but somehow hers is the one that stands out. Is this fair? Is this righteous? Sure, Piper is opening up a lot of ears and eyes about the prison system and the need for prison reform. It's a Catch 22. She is the face. She can't help it. People love the show. People are curious about what is happening behind bars. She might as well take the chains and do something about it. But what about everyone else? What about all the other stories?

All this is muddled up in my mind as Apacha and I walk to the bench. The air is brisk and the wind keeps slapping my face. I tuck my naked hands into my pockets for warmth and listen to everything moving around me. We take a new route today and walk around the ball field, where little boys, age nine or ten are playing baseball. 

They keep yelling, "Ball."

Apparently the pitcher is not that accurate. The kids keep walking bases. I stand there for a couple of minutes and watch them play. I am in awe of their innocence--young and running free with dirt and dust on their sweatshirts, bending over bases, eager to sprint.

Innocence. Guilt. My mind keeps going back to the prisoners. I wonder what games they play in prison. I wonder what they do all day long. What they think about. How they survive. All this wondering, I do from afar. Outside. Under an open blue sky with clouds billowing about. I wonder if I'll do anything with these thoughts. Or if they'll just disappear. I wonder if I'll get lost in my own silly worries, like not sleeping at night and all these pages I must write.

We keep walking. 
We hug the treeline. Branches still bare.
The birds chatter about. We listen. 
Apacha runs ahead. I watch and step over dirt.
It clogs into my boots. 
Apacha shits in the woods. 
I don't pick it up. It belongs there.
Natural fertilizer. 
Apacha meets a poodle and a St. Bernard 
They sniff each other's butts and move along.
I am cold, but free. How come I am free?
I've made countless mistakes. 

At the bench there is a family of three.
A little girl in a pink puffed jacket bends over rocks.
She picks through them and stuffs some in her pocket.

They are weary of me and move along.
I sit and scribble, nothing important just observations--

Yellow running shoes highlight the ground
French couple talking about the trash--déchets.
Slow tick of wind - 
Sun powdered eyelashes cause the eyes to set.
Apacha's tongue too big for mouth. 
Wonder if awkward for him. 
Send Tony First Day of My Life video. 

In the distance is the land of barking dogs (the dog park.) It is strategically placed a couple hundred feet from the bench. Apacha is eager to get there and bounce around with new and old friends. My body is cold from sitting so we get up and climb the gravel piles and get on the path to the dog park. 

There are two black lab mixes, a husky and Apacha. They run and play for about a minute until Apacha gets bored. Then, the gate screeches and all the dogs stop and tilt their heads to check out the new arrival. She is small and white and wears a little vest. Her name is Lola. She is a Bichon Frise. She probably weighs twelve pounds. She prances in. Her white hair curly and trimmed. She looks out of place.

All four big dogs gang up on her.
She isn't scared. 
She is faster and runs away. 
Once they catch up, they corner her.
The big dog owners grab collars. 
Teeth are flashed. 
The little white dog gets scooped up
and exits. 
Her time shorter. 
She didn't fit in. 
But she held her own. 

Everyone staggers off and says their goodbyes. Apacha and I run across the dog park and exit out the back. The gate is rusty and makes a shriek as I open it. There is another gate. For a moment, we stand surrounded by rusting fence. Confined. Just for a moment. I think, again, back to the prisoners. Back to their surroundings. A 6 x 8 steel cell. 

I open the other gate and step onto the path canopied by winter's bare branches. Sunbeams pour through. They hit my face. I absorb the sun. Apacha runs ahead. I watch him sniff out the path. We continue on.



Check these out --

• http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013/11/23-petty-crimes-prison-life-without-parole

• http://piperkerman.com/justice-reform/justice-reform-organizations

And the video I need to send to my friend Tony. It's lovey.

 

 

Firsts.

I was tempted to cheat today.

I was tempted to skip our weekly Monday afternoon hike to the bench. Since class was canceled last week, Apacha and I ventured to the bench quite a few times at different hours. We observed the horizon drip pinks into the clouds and blush the houses on the hills during our dusk hike last Wednesday. The hills of Frick were beet red, causing the eyes to squint into awe.

I remember the first time Apacha and I discovered Frick. It was August and the sun was warm on our bodies. I was wearing a dress the color of lavender and my skin was dark from being outside all the afternoons I could be outside all afternoon. I found Frick on a whim, driving aimlessly around my new city. Attempting to gain my sense of direction. Everyday we drove to a new section of town and searched it out. We let ourselves get lost, then found, then lost. This was before I had an iPhone. All I had was a map.  My new boss thought I was crazy for this. She called me old school. Who knew having a map was old school. Hand written directions were scattered all over my passenger seat last August. I would reverse them to get home. Quickly, I was finding shortcuts. Pittsburgh is full of shortcuts if you search out for them.

Apacha was with me when we passed the signs for Frick and I slowed my car and found a spot. It was around seven o'clock and the sun was starting to fall and the moon was beginning to rise and we needed to stretch our limbs.

It was one of those dreamy summer nights, with the air perfectly warm but not too humid. We hopped out of the car and strolled the paths of Frick. On this first trip, I found a different bench, underneath an umbrella of a tree, and that is exactly what the tree became on that first initial visit--an umbrella. A gentle rain started to drip as Apacha and I climbed the hill. I had a book with me, I don't remember which one, but I pulled it out of my bag and sat on the bench underneath the umbrella tree and listened the the rain drip down the leaves the color of asparagus. Everything on the ground was green--the grass, the leaves, the hills running into the bottoms of the other, dipping into each other.

And that sky. That beautiful summer sky. The sky was a watercolor of pinks--pink lips sipping a cosmopolitan. Salmon swimming a bed of red roses. Flamingos dancing a tongue. And it was the whole damn sky. Despite the rain it was glowing, screaming, bleeding pink. Blood blending water.

I remember sitting there, with the book in hand and Apacha at foot and the smell of a soft, summer rain in my nose. I inhaled it. I inhaled the earth around me and sucked it up into my lungs. This was Pittsburgh. This was my place to call home for the next two years. This was my place to swallow and absorb and inhale and exhale day in and day out and day in. This was a new segment of the person I was becoming.

And that day, I had no one but myself. I talked to Apacha and strangers at the park, strangers at the cafes, strangers at the library. I was a stranger amongst strangers and it was all very unfamiliar. I loved almost every minute of it. I was new. I was unfolding. Nobody knew my name. I could have changed my name. I could have changed my story. I could have faked an accent. I could of cut my hair and dyed it blonde and no one would have known the difference.  I was nobody yet. I was invisible. This city and I had no qualms. We had no histories. We were just beginning to adjust. To become familiar with one another.  In those early days with Pittsburgh I was climbing and crossing many things. I was in awe of the friendly demeanor of its people. I wanted to sit in the chairs people placed in front of their homes to save their parking spots. I tried pierogies. I visited the Andy Warhol Museum. I found all the good thrift stores and started filling my house with things. New, old things. Other peoples disregards.

Apacha and I sat there for over an hour. We watched the sky fade into purples.
Lavender. Petunia. Verbena. Passiflora. Salvia. Pansies. Daylily. Iris. Aster. Bacopa. Yarrow.

The rain stopped and we walked back to the car under the appearance of the moon. I remember thinking how nice it was to have this park in the middle of the city. A few miles from my new home. Every night after that until school started, Apacha and I ventured back to this park. It became a routine for us. We met people along the way, at the dog park and they would give me Pittsburgh advice. Tell me the good spots. The best hiking spots for dogs. Good places for breakfast. The best place for cheap furniture.

I quickly fell for Pittsburgh because of the people I met within its realm. I went from nobody to somebody. I shook hands and looked people in the eyes and listened as they spoke and found truth in their stories. Over time, I have gathered a tribe. Through school and work I have found a new community. A strong, solid set of people who support each other. Who encourage each other. Who engage each other.

Within each other, we find a little bit of ourselves.

Now, on this Monday, this morning. I almost cheated. I almost headed straight to the coffee shop to do school work because there was much to do and the air was too cold and I didn't feel like a park outing this morning. I felt like sipping strong coffee and listening to Bill Callahan and writing. I felt like shutting everyone out and spilling myself onto the page.

But those two eyes. Those two prehistoric yellow eyes looked into mine. Apacha knew it was Monday. He had to. He started pawing at me and talking in little barks and mini howls. He was fiesty and he deserved to be. He deserves his Monday hikes. Just because we went on extra outings last week doesn't mean I should deprive him of our Monday hike. And once I zipped up my coat and pulled on my gloves, he was bouncing around the house with excitement. He knew exactly where we were going. I opened the door and he ran straight to the car. He usually rests in the snow for a bit. But he went straight there, his fox tail wagging back and forth as he ran.

And, of course, it was all worth it. Once we got out and ran our bodies into the redundant powdered sugar snow we became alive again. We stopped to observe the birds flying overhead. Singing the songs of spring. The birds were about--bluejays and sparrows. And one beautiful bird, I could not identify. It was large with black top wings which were white as the snow underneath with a mahogany head. It soared by its solo self from tree to tree, gliding with the wind.

Once we arrived at the bench, the sun was directly overhead--twelve o' clock. The fire pit from last week was covered, but a bigger and better version was built about a hundred feet from it, with the snow covered gravel piles on three of its sides. A smarter placement for the pit, as the piles of gravel block the wind and hold the warmth.

Again, I wondered who this person is and if they are sleeping out here at night. Outside my window, as I type it is 3 degrees. In my house it is 66 degrees. I have the warmth of Apacha next to my frame and my feet tucked under his body. I get to curl myself under a couple of blankets. I wear fleece leggings and a thermal.

How did I get so lucky, Pittsburgh?

I didn't cheat today. I couldn't do that to Apacha. I owe him these hikes, these walks in the park, his time to sniff out his own version of Pittsburgh and make his bold yellow marks. We stayed longer in the park than we usually do. I climbed the gravel hills covered with snow and watched the cars on the interstate slow down into a traffic jam. They looked like a train. Connected from front to back to front to back. I angled my body backwards and jumped down the hill, sliding a good six feet--for a second it felt like I was snowboarding. Apacha barked at me to hurry up, he was eager to get to the dog park which was right beyond the gravel piles I was surfing.

This time I followed him. He led me to the land of barking dogs. His tail whipped back in forth and his hackles shot up. He ran and played with dogs of all sizes at the dog park. He flew through the snow and quickly became the alpha. He barked and the others followed.

Now, next to me, he sleeps and dreams. As he dreams, his paws shoot and he whimpers and howls. His body quivers. I picture him dreaming of running free in the endless blankets of snow with wild dogs. And then, I think--these aren't dreams, these are Mondays.

I won't cheat.

I owe him Mondays. And Tuesdays. And all other days. I owe him his wildness. His run frees. His dartings into the woods. His endless blankets of snow (which do seem quite endless.)