I dropped a friend off at the airport this morning. Driving back into Boise, I watched the first light come on behind the mountains that cradle the city. Dawn softened their outline and erased their topography in a wash of lavender and navy. Only the highest peaks were highlighted in red, so that it looked as if a wildfire were cresting the ridge line, hungry for new fuel, dry timber.
Details obscured, those mountains could have been any mountains. Central Arizona’s Sierra Prieta and Bradshaw Range. New Mexico’s Sandias. Alaska. New Hampshire. Northeast Georgia. Held places. Places I have loved: some intimately, some from a distance. My mind traveled the atlas as I drove, the map’s pages layered one over the other, the geography blurred as if those pages were translucent. For a moment I felt as though I might be anywhere. And though I could have felt lost then, I was comforted instead.