Written by Kathryn Schuyler
Imagery by Grant Lemons



Big cities close in on you: fact.
In my formative years, I would stare
out the car window at perfect lines of
leafy fields, rolling like film.
I used to think I could see a hundred miles
to the mountain rims of our
fetal valley—Imperial
for the luxury of spaciousness.

In adult terms, it’s more like thirty
miles to the mountains
and takes maybe half an hour.

And yet, thirty miles seems impossible
in Los Angeles—all stoplights,
all jaywalkers, traffic jams, mergers,
brake lights, one ways, left hand yields,
meters, garages, bicyclists, barrages
of glaring signs and billboards,
hulking buildings, impatient
hoards of transporters just trying to get home—
home, for God’s sake, home—

like the smell of alfalfa
lolling on the warm west wind,
muddy-banked canals, hushed, plodding
past the sun-cracked clay
and the stars stilted simply over the mountains
humming along with the one hooting train:
Take me away from this madness! they sing.
Let me hear the sound of someone I love


Kathryn Schuyler is a writer, traveler, pun connoisseur, and aspiring Renaissance woman. You can find her rounding the beaches of San Diego, CA with five or so books on her person at any given time. Read more at kathrynschuyler.com and follow her adventures on Instagram.


Liz Lorenzen:

This is a beautiful description of the Imperial Valley.

Aug 30, 2016

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