Covington: it’s home. I haven’t found a chai worth mentioning or a yerba mate to speak of, but it has other things. Gush. Mud. Rain. Creeks that ooze through nondescript neighborhood parks and meander into magical forests. Storms – wind – thunder. They’re all real. It makes me remember what a real rainstorm is, and why you would be afraid of thunder. The trees speak in the wind because there are pines to talk to one another.
These are considerations of things that the northwest is without.

In Baton Rouge on Saturday Kathleen and I walked about her neighborhood, and down by the creek. Plash. Did my heart just leap at a turtle? Yes it did. I haven’t wanted to strip off my shoes and stockins for a muddy creek in a long time – but we went on a turtle hunt. The minnows were elusive brown slips. The algae sparkled, discs of green life layered on living brown water. It bubbles! Jeremy is gleeful and thrilled by bubbles. Me too. This is a real creek.


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