Campo Santo.

The sixth foot of snow is falling, and this is my last quote from Land of Little Rain. I have never seen anything half as beautiful as twilight in the desert, and as I write this I feel its heat beating down on my skin even as I shake in my wintery eastern goosebumps that never smoothen out.

There is another town about Las Uvas that merits some attention, a town of arches and airy crofts, full of linnets, blackbirds, fruit birds, small sharp hawks, and mockingbirds that sing by night. They pour out piercing, unendurably sweet cavatinas above the fragrance of bloom and musky smell of fruit. Singing is in fact the business of the night at Las Uvas as sleeping is more midday. When the moon comes over the mountain wall new-washed from the sea, and the shadows lie like lace on the stamped floors of the patios, from recess to recess of the vine tangle runs the thrum of guitars and the voice of singing.


I know I've said that the redwood grove is heaven on Earth, but I have not been here. Come summer, I will be free to roam that huge incomprehensible space east of the Sierras. Find me some hot springs, a jug of water, and some dronesgiving. It's too bad I'll miss the spring.