Intentionality

Sitting here, wishing I was at Lyle, the rain coming down outside. It's Tucson, the kids watching Scooby Doo for the hundredth time, not knowing they could be sitting on the porch at Lyle, staring out at the eternal Huachucas, the impenetrable domain of deer and javelina and countless other forest dwellers. The wood stove stuffed with juniper cut from the hillside, the grass of the last season wet and weighted, waiting for warmer days. I look up at the hillside, contemplating grape vines, imagining the short rows well tended, the impossibility of it all, the diminutive harvest barely saved from birds, the wine—strong, imbalanced—which we nevertheless drink and force on our friends who smile and nod and think we're crazy. They're right, of course. It was all part of the plan.