Like feathers caught in a spider's web

On quiet Sundays when I have nothing much to do and nowhere to go, snapshot memories come to mind as clear as if I were still in a place I traveled past or stayed in for only a moment or an hour or an evening. The lumberyard and its smell of fresh cut timber in Idaho where I spent the night in an adjacent motel made of logs. An ice cream shop in a small town in New Mexico where I bought a scoop of chocolate atop a sugar cone to ease the heat of the day. The mountaintop village above the southwest desert where day-trippers flooded the sidewalks and spilled into the barbecue joints, diners and trinket shops. The site of a long-abandoned pueblo and Spanish mission on a remote and seldom traveled back road, now a national monument to the savage destruction of an ancient culture by Catholic priests and monks. These and many other images, fleeting yet distinct recollections, are captive in my soul like feathers in a spider’s web. They are who I am. A traveler. A storyteller. An image-maker.