By T.A. Akimoff
Walking through the canyons of downtown Dallas on a cold-for-spring morning, I splash through obvious streams of runoff from the newly watered flower boxes, while dodging obviously yellow runoff from the guy in the hoody and camo pants who leans up against the wall like he has a migraine. The grackles mimic sirens as the besuited men are led into high towers to finance their dreams as the restaurants lie dormant mere hours after bustling with late-night crowds, the detritus of which is now blown away by an army of men with leaf blowers so the city sounds like a suburban neighborhood on a Saturday morning in June.
A security guard notices me and falls in beside me.
September and October have been two of the heaviest travel months of my career in conservation so far. I have seen the sun rise in Washington D.C. and set in Portland on the same day. I’ve traveled to the political heartland, and I’ve driven thousands of miles around Oregon.
Sadness leaks in like the cold. You bundle up, prepared for it. Ready for the onslaught. But it comes in wisps – icy fingers that make you shiver at first. Then you choke as they tighten around your throat.
Dads are interesting creatures.
