This is what I saw—more or less—when I looked out my window on Friday afternoon. Wild earth, wild sky, and where they meet. This is where the monsters live.
In Maryland it happened where the water met the sand. Wildness wasn’t so much a factor as “relatively undisturbed.” In places along the tidal rivers, there were little sandy beaches underneath the trees or on a point beside a marsh. Each low tide revealed a strip of re-cleaned sand and sometimes little horrors or a gem. A shed crab shell, a carcass, or a perfect piece of polished driftwood. Mystery gifts and offerings every day. On my outings I collected tiny skulls, odd jokes, and flotsam that amused me. If we’d owned property on the water, I might never have moved, no matter how hot and sticky the weather or how aggravating the influx of wealthy city people, such is the attraction of this zone.
Out here the scale is massive, the sky a river of atmosphere against the mountains. Thrilling, but there’s little “comfort.” So old, so primal, lonely as the gods…
This is what New Mexico has done to me. I have to seek assurance in a deeper place.