We hiked, he and I, on a quiet morning, together in the canyon where the pinecones are, where the cedar and juniper are, too. I brought my basket for carrying the rich fragrance home.
Along the trail, we talked, we planned, we dreamed a little, and I gathered cones. Here one, there another, like treasure hidden in plain view. Then, yellow-tipped cedar and juniper with berries in a deepest purpley-blue.
Along a bend in the trail and a turn in the conversation, I asked him what in the world he'd do without me. He paused, quiet, like he does, then said, well, he wouldn't have nearly as many pinecones.
We sat on the high place and looked down, far down to the icy river, leaned against one of those puzzle-bark pine trees.
And I wouldn't have nearly as many reasons to love him.
.
