The slopes are vibrant with the green of new grass; the streambeds fill musically with water. The red-brown of a hawk looks like rich color against the gray of a deceased tree trunk. Beneath a wintry sky soft with clouds, coyotes stalk the hillsides. A patch of budding daffodils stops me in my tracks; after all, it is December. I, silently composing poetry, find myself smiling. I look up, and the silhouettes of three deer against the yellowing western sky give me delighted pause. This is California in December—wild and living.
I hike alone and smiling. From this vantage point, I can see that I have regained the balance it takes to really live.
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