Albo P Fossa—May 16, 2013
Words mark our path in the dust. I write of the loves of my life: my wife, my land, my home, a tree, times passed. I don’t know why I came to be. It was not my choice. But I mean well: by and large, not much harm, or much more than the space I must use. Neath this clear sky, I write now and then, for grins.
Near since I learned words, I saw and grew up with dreams of Santa Fe: the smell of clear skies and bright and odd dry lands. The hope, the mix, the taste of spice, the joy and way of life. Go West, young man, go West. I did. At 23, at last I came home: a long trail.
Time passed; in 2003 I popped APFwebs. In 2006 I spun a blog. By 2013 the two were one. In 2016 we drove with the long trail, start to end, and saw its ruts. A 46 year sip, then 2020.
This day took so long to come. If words could talk, they’d speak volumes. You see the proof. Listen.