May 13, 2014
A rusty barb-wire fence divides the landscape. Strung high above the the fence, are pulsating electric wires that ruin the skyline view. The sound of rubber tires rolling across quartz sand fills my ears as mountain bikers zoom past. Black beetles scurry out of their way, as do I. In-between the bikers squealing brakes, crickets nosily click their legs and birds whistle their sweet music into the evening air as the sun begins its westward dive.
Awakening with spring rains, the hills come alive after a long sleep. However, the blues, greens, pinks and yellows will only last for another month or so. By July the temperatures will soar into the triple digits and the only thing left of green will be the sage and bitter brush. For now, I enjoy what the semi-arid climate of my new backyard, the Boise foothills have to offer: A refuge from the constricting city and its hateful politics.