Amboy Crater

There are clouds thin as sage smoke over the Bristol Mountains. The lava rock is comfortable against my back. A zebra tail, the twelfth today, regards us sidelong.

A dozen years ago, just up the road a couple dozen miles, I felt at home here unexpectedly. Today is the same, but inside out. I am surprised at the memory that I ever felt at home anywhere else.  Surely I have been here forever, at least since the crater a mile south did spume my backrest. Twelve years or twelve thousand? A gnat’s wingspan. A flea’s eyelash.

An hour of good conversation with an old friend, sitting here at the BLM Amboy Crater National Scenic Area parking lot, and that followed two hours of good conversation with a dozen new friends, and that on the heels of yet another hour of conversation I’d had in the truck with myself, Shadows lengthen in the Bristols, the Marbles.

How many turns of the wheel to bring me here? It doesn’t matter. A normal, pleasant afternoon, and all my life conspired to bring me here.