The forest doesn’t shift the line.

The summit stays.
The stream doesn’t climb backwards
to serve a fantasy.
The meadow lies, in honesty.

But here?
The red line moves.
The goalposts glide.
The temperature climbs.
And we pretend it’s the glow
of a Golden Age.

It isn’t.

It’s just heat.
We’re dehydrated.
And still, we don’t name it.

But this place has a name.
It’s called Here.
And Here is not okay.

Saying that,
out loud, together,
isn’t hysteria.

It’s truth.

This is not the way.
We can do better.

Please, have some water.

Today I stash a liter
for the long ridge ahead.
For dehydrated body
and exhausted head.

It’s not much.
But with snow disappearing,
it might be enough,
on a ridge,
in the shade,
hidden from view
near a bluff.

A Father’s Day gift for my future self.
Thirsty Nate will be passing by soon,
with tired legs,
a heavy pack,
and a destination to reach by noon.

The best gifts I’ve received from fathers,
my own and others,
weren’t things.

They were ways.
Ways of doing.
Ways of giving.
Offerings.

Ways of walking forward.
Ways of pausing.
Ways of getting quiet
when you need
to hear your own voice again.

To harvest from a seed.

The petals curl
as the heat rises.
And summer
has just begun.

You can climb
to beat the heat,
but you’ll never
beat the sun.

I’m thinking about service.
The kind that doesn’t always look
the way we expect it to.

Some showed up without a weapon.
Just steady hands
to keep others in the air.
Quietly. Plainly.
No need for a spotlight.

Some remember with fireworks.
Others, with a folded flag.
I’ve been remembering quietly—
sorting through pages,
tracing faces in old photos,
wondering how to tell a story
someone lived,
survived,
and almost never spoke of.

He made it back.
Not everyone did.

Some carried the weight home.
Some never got the chance.

This weekend,
I’m remembering both.

Sometimes the numbers don’t match the memory.
You think: this shouldn’t be here.
Not at this temperature. Not this late.

But there it is.
Melt slowed just long enough
to hold a moment.

Some weight I packed.
Some just fell around me.

Boots on stone.
Moving under pressure.
Not for speed, just to keep moving.

The rhythm was breath, then pause.
Sweat, then wind.
Birdsong, then silence.

I was asked, again, what I’m going to do about the things I don’t like in the world.
About what’s happening. About what I see.

The answer isn’t easy, but it’s clear.

I’m going to stay human.
I’m going to pay attention.
I’m going to hold onto what’s still honest, still alive, still not for sale.

I didn’t stop caring about the quiet stuff.
I just realized it’s connected to the loud stuff.
Still posting blooms. Just paying attention to the bulldozers, too.

Maguire Primrose, this weekend. Still here. Still blooming.