My city lights twinkled like the universe below me. I grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment. The smell of the city, of Los Angeles' moist cool jetfuel tinged air curled into my nostrils and my lips curled into a smile of pleasure. The sound of fine shoes echo through LAX's underground tunnel to baggage claim.
The wind whipping the palm trees on my street. Rustling the palm fronds. Clear night like the blackness of the desert. The wind swirls around me as I walk Mr Dog in this misplaced desert night blowing through this city. I think, smiling, if you can't go to the desert, the desert comes to you. I am thankful for these strong, cold, clear Santa Ana winds.
At night, I bundle from their chill, remembering times around a sole flickering campfire. During the day, I strip down to t-shirts and hike the heat warmed creosote chaparral. Sweet dust desolation.
I think of empty Mountain Ranges. Full fat moons rising in a pink sky. Black and white lunar surfaces of rock. Hot black cracked pavement. These memories evoked by these swirling winds of the desert. Penetrating my heart, finding the pain, drying it's wet bloody crying to dust, blowing from my heart to join with dust in these Santa Monica Mountains, the San Gabriels and beyond.