Foothills and Hairdos
A Different Way of Seeing
Just back from a visit to villages of underground dwellers with above ground hairdos.
Some whose buried heads house creatures like the tortoises, who, too, surround themselves with themselves, ducking into themselves the way a wave ducks into the sandy cliffs that protect the castles we mold from the salty beach.
Incredible how slow they stand with feet so inaccessible, no checking shoelaces, head and foot in different blocks of sod.
Tufts of hair, erect, electric, catch the light to feed the body, feed endurance, feed the need to keep on standing deep.
I run among the plots, my head so far above these grassy toppings they seem but tiny fields of waving wheat around my feet.
I take quick steps to curb momentum, adding rhythm just in time to make the leaps that land in sand and lead me down to the rocky high rise also known as Coyote Condos.
A wilderness resort of sorts, sporting curved walls of rooms carved with wind and water, dry and quiet now, ledged with ancient balconies guarding private beaches left by prehistoric tides that come no more.
This landmark thousand star hotel, massive, built to last, till Mama Nature needs more grains of sand and lets some smaller pieces break off under fingers of the Land Boy who hurls the clods toward distant hills and doesn't see them land on secret hairdos.
So talented Sherry. Your abundant art, photography and writing so amazing. Thank you for sharing your gifts so generously. 🥰