...the Lewis' Woodpecker still forages in the charcoal of the standing deadfall.
I've had quite the week, beginning in the desert around Simnasho, in the dry hills of the Warm Springs Reservation...
...and ending in the rainy mountains of the Coast Range north of the mouth of the great Columbia River, the River of the West, just east of the hardscrabble little town of Chinook, Washington.
It's been good, hard work, and an interesting journey, but what it hasn't left me time for is blogging. I'm trying this when I should be sleeping, because I have a 0330 first call tomorrow.
But I wanted to share these with you, the images of a warm Wednesday in the high desert, with the purple and yellow wildflowers shining from the green grass sea, and the liquid song of the meadowlark and the rasp of the vermillion-breasted woodpecker the only sounds above the endless sough of the wind.
There are times when I feel tired of life; then my legs and my hip hurts, when the usual pack of troubles comes to visit, when I look up grimly to see the old griefs and fears that sit at the top of the steps leading to the small room in the back of my head where my daughter Bryn's old crib still lies empty.
But this is not one of them.
But I do need to sleep. So back this weekend with more.