Feilds

I grew up at the top of the valley, where the Cascades break off into the Costal Ranges and the Sierra Nevadas. While these stunning mountains are part of the skyline of my memory the foothills that lead to them are my idea of home.
Something about the rolling hills that my hometown was nestled in always have always intrigued and fascinated me. They stretch out from me towards the mountains slowly building up on each other to the base of the dark peaks. They are full of mystery, hiding ghost towns and dry river beads. There is a stoicism there. This is the land as it was, as it has been, and as it continues to be. It is empty and vast only broken in its silent waves by tiny ribbons of concrete that meander thoughts its hills and valleys. Dry as a bone they flow like water, one building from the next waving away like the sea. Vast yet ending. They call to me. In my weakest time I retreat into them. Driving with no real direction, just towards a sense of isolation.
The colors rotate throughout the year, changing with the season. The rich emerald of spring burns quickly away, giving in to out predominate season, summer. The color matures, creamy gold dominates the landscape, folded upon itself in infinity, dotted with the dusty green of the creeks oasis. From far away the hills are as smooth as velvet. The drawn out heat of summer leads into the chill of fall, not much changes out in the hills. First rain. The brittle stalks of star thistle loose the last of their color and stand gray and lifeless among the stripped scrub oaks. The sense of death is short lived. In the dark of winter life starts again. Lime and verbena shades dust the hills. The green grows low to the ground, huddling under its dead relatives, waiting. Waiting for the sun, waiting to grow into richer shades of green once again. 
This cycle continues as I move away, and I am always drawn back to it.