I miss it

 i miss the scratch of the star thistle on my calves leaving traces of random hikes through golden hills like the oaks miss the summer dusty dry roads. i miss the crunch of the pine needles under my feet like the river misses the melting snow bringing down the yuba blue and emerald green. i miss the red dirt clay and stones thrown through windows and open doors and bonfires in greenhorn creek. i miss it like the wind on sun burned faces