Tomorrow I fly to Las Vegas. For the first time.
Granted, my destination is red rocks and silent canyons and cycling roads, not glitz and glam and tick and tack. But I'll have my camera along. My blue suede boots. In case. You never know. Stories might call me off the bike and into the street. I'm ready for that possibility.
But I wasn't ready for this. Here.
That last night the coyotes would wail moonshine-drenched numbers, Streisand-like beltings, Liberace-like improvisations, as though from the big stage.
That this morning this stretch of green field and mountain would turn all sparkle and jewel, glitter and dazzle, shimmer and fizz. Flash in a field.
When the sun rose and flirted with pond and river, teased them into drifts of mist and wisps of fog above the wide farm fields of the glacial-rolled valley, there down at my feet appeared a galaxy of baubles, glistering in a frenzy of perfect confection. Glimmer and gleam.
Vegas, you've got nothing on this. Not a thing.