First of February.

Someone cut all the cedars from the hillside. Don’t know who specifically- it’s the sort of job doled out to a lowly tech in the dead of winter, Americorps kids trading hard labor for living expenses and tuition assistance.

In places the fallen boughs blanket the steep, rocky slope. They’ll burn it in a couple weeks when the multiflora rose starts budding out, knocking back two birds with one stone. I can imagine in June the whole thing covered in paintbrush flowers and coneflower, waving stalks of prairie dock and silver plume.

I find the address for the ranger district when I get home, and pen a quick thank you.





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