Bristlecone pines twist for strength at the top. Micro-landscapes shifting every few feet, spongy grasses to willow carr to scatterings of violet flowers, smaller than my thumbnail, the tallest of the tundra. Cairns point to nothing.
We drove from home to Windy Ridge to Windy Point, and home, to see 1,000-year-old trees. We are not there yet.
One, blown over, sliced, and carved, still roots in two places. Nearby, the phone line ends, as if nothing more can be said.
Our sixth anniversary:
Don’t step on the forbs,
Delicate, small, slow to heal.