Those wide open roads used to be home and I would drive them often through hills and scrubland to find patches of green and brown to walk through. Hills stretch to other hills where others have stacked small rock towers to mark trails. I followed these without hesitation. 

The airport was busy but intimate and this was also home. I remember twice a year where invaders and infidels would come and ruin things. 

Stepping on rocks would make my feet hurt, but the water would ease the sun sting on my shoulders and back. Clear water, pure and dirty all at once.

And that rock, that beautiful dome protruding from the scrub land like a granite postule, that was a journey. We find its caves and crevices and inched through. I tore the back pocket of my newly purchased hiking shorts and we both were sweating a cool sweat. The pizza we ate was served with love and the fennel was nearly overpowering and we both drank shiner bock at three in the afternoon before our drive back through the perfectly green spring time Texas hill country. Bluebonnets were easily mistaken for small pools of water in the distance. People stopped to pick them, though this is illegal.