Thistles and volcanic earth under my feet

I went for a short walk this evening, walking up the road on a hill of volcanic earth. All day, the clouds filtered the Sun and droplets of rain fell upon the ground. I'd look out every now and then to check the moisture content in the darker wet color of earth and to observe the big sky full of grey and white clouds. The Peaks are still familiar to me; they are my friends, though we have both changed some in the intervening 30-odd years since I've lived here and walked through her tinkling Aspen groves. 

A clump of thistles caught my eye as I walked back to the house where I am staying; each periwinkle thistle head was illuminated and glowing with the yellow-white radiance of sunset light. I don't know what moved me to tears as I sensed the thistles and light... I do know that I laughed just seconds later and that I allowed a memory of Yuki walking with me to fill my heart to near bursting -- Yuki, sniffing everything as we meander together in the last rays of light. There we were, crunching pebbles and red dust under paw and rubber flip-flop, past prickly pear and mesquite, past slender palo verde, vibrantly green, dodging miniature teradactyls in the now cooler night air. Jesse would have been waiting for us inside; our silky black kitty with her pointy black ears attuned to our approaching footsteps.

I welcomed myself home to a home I am visiting for a short while and glanced up to the Peaks all aglow with orange light. I decide I want to write something in my blog. Something. This. The thistles. The light. The light in my heart, and that I am never alone. My favorite response on my bicycle trip to people who ask, "Are you alone?" is "no, I am never alone." And this is true.