Meteor

Just back from a swim in the clear waters of Pyramid Lake.  A long motorcycle ride through the Sierras and then up 395. The sun has just set and there is a smattering of charming clouds in the sky.

Sitting alone, I drink a big bottle of ale.  It is very pleasant to be sitting by the shores of a desert lake at sunset a little bit drunk.

Why do I ever doubt she’ll come?  What will happen, will happen.

The moon is up, a half moon up about half way in the south.  It will be going down about midnight.  Seagulls are caw-cawing as they fly about here at this inland sea.

The stars come out one by one, heralded by a planet in the northwest.  A satellite crosses slowly overhead until it falls into the Earth’s shadow and disappears.

Pyramid Lake is one of the largest lakes in North America.  It is the final destination of the Truckee River.  It is the largest remnant of an ancient lake that covered most of northwest Nevada.  It is about 1/6 the salinity of the ocean.  I sit beside its shore waiting for a friend to arrive from three states away.

~o~

Morning and she has not arrived.  Did she get lost?  Did she have an auto cataclysm, stuck at some small town mechanic? Did she change her mind?

I woke up and watched the sunrise.  I slept so well.  Soft sand, plus found plush carpeting, plus sleeping pad, plus down bag equals best sleep ever.

The Earth has made half a rotation since I arrived.  The morning light is exquisite.  Seagull conversations woke me up at dawn with a sound like garbled CB chatter.

~o~

She walks down the beach, hips swaying in the push of the soft sand.  A willowy fireball.  Which I just looked up, a brilliant meteor that may trail bright sparks. A day that feels like a week.  Timeless, open, sexy, relaxing, playful, emotional, healing.

We swim in the salty waters of Pyramid Lake and do handstands and piggyback rides and balance on each others shoulders and hold each other.  We build a makeshift tent out of scrap metal found on the beach and an old sheet she has.  A modest gypsy tent.

We talk forever.  What is said?  Everything.  What is not said?  Everything.  Stories of anger, longing, wonderment, possibilities, and flirtation with disaster.  Old history.  New history.  History not made yet.  What we want out of life, out of love, what turns us on.  What we feel we’re missing, how we’re trying to find it.

We swim and swim.  We look at the stars.  We talk about our hearts, our adventures, future travel plans.

I say:  I want to feel rooted, but I don’t want those roots to feel like prison.  We agree on this.  She wants to grow roots.  I want to grow wings.

Sitting by the tracks in Truckee, afternoon sun hot on my face.  I’m still not sure what to think.

I feel emptied.  Like I’ve poured out everything.

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