Winter came to the Sierras with a vengeance and, one hopes, with the possibility of restoring some of the damage that years of drought have written in browns and blacks where greens once were. Eager for adventure, we packed quickly and made a last minute trip into the groves of giant sequoia that dot the western slopes.
The moon was rising over the ridge when I ventured into the forest, casting a pale, amber light across the crowns of the largest trees. Water was everywhere, running over and under snow and ice and congregating in torrents racing down from higher elevations.
What a thing, to gaze past dwarfs, to see worlds convulsing in a great luminous, purple sea above, to be an insect in a primeval garden.