Giving Thanks for the Harvest
It's dark. There is a nip to the otherwise dry desert air and four green carpet steps lead down to murky water smelly enough to taste. A flash flood memory of Mae Sot, Thailand sparks the first drip of adrenaline and the body recoils; class III rapids down main street, sinking refugee camps, and spilling sewage. Memories rear their head at the oddest of times. My warm face hits sixtythree degree water and flight turns to fight. Second drip of adrenaline. Don’t forget to breathe. Sixty male professional triathletes doggy paddle in a very large drainage ditch somewhere near Tempe, Arizona. The announcer gives the one minute warning. “Boom!” goes the cannon, we’re off. Back off or say hello to my elbow. The pack of sixty quickly turns into a long line of ants marching, with me somewhere in the middle. Catch, pull, breathe, and site. Losing focus the mind drifts to riding my bicycle, knowing later it will warm and smells of juniper will roast in a high-noon
