They’re sudden, those big geography shifts. Super-heated skunky waft of green rotting forest when I land in Belize. Six weeks later, Colorado wind bites my face, tropical glow sucked out the car window — one breath — as Tay and I speed home. Yes, home. A kitchen and couch and desk and patio — backpack in the closet, por fin. Skin dries out, hair dries out; the altitude puts a light, heady buzz over it all (who-wha? culture shock?), the sun bright and warm then gone, two feet of snow and a sky of gray snow, socking in Boulder Valley and the entire Front Range. Storm warning and I’m home, holed up, killing the Buddha, and taking pictures of our yard.
