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I walked with free-roaming peacocks in an empty garden the other day. As they crowed from their nests high up in the trees, I wandered down a twig-covered path and found myself at the edge of a lake. The wooden boat houses were empty, the glass windows dulled like white sheets over summer house furniture. I couldn't see the sky in the water; the sun's reflection was blinding. I peered through the branches, though, and saw the blue sky overhead. The lake shimmered at eye level, and I contemplated climbing a tree trunk bent down low.

Yesterday I played catch with my brother in the park. Further down the open field, a shirtless man did the same with his dog. Couples whispered under the shade, and a father and toddler son rode a tandem bike down the dirt path. We walked under the cloudless sky to the water's edge. Throwing off our shoes, we stepped gingerly on the sharp rocks leading down to the springs, where we cooled our feet and rested them on slippery, moss-covered stones. Little children and big dogs splashed noisily through the shallow water, while tadpoles attempted to swim uninterrupted.

Today I drove in circles through the hill country. I stopped at a red metal bridge and climbed an uneven path beside it. A lone tree marked the top, its knotted arms outstretched as if eager to dive into the river below. Boats drew white zigzags through the blue-green waves, and across the way were tree-covered hills and the cityscape on the horizon. I napped on a rock jutting out from the cliff as the sunlight seeped into my skin. I waited for dusk, but the sun refused to fall.

Austin. It's good to be home.