Homesick

The trees are changing color, fiery and vibrant in their blankets of gold and red. The birds are almost gone, and the only ones I see frequently now are ducks and crows. The squirrels are growing fat on nuts to prepare for winter. I saw a raccoon near the Library; it floundered through the Mill Stream as it fled me and my hall mates.

There are raccoons here, and crows, and squirrels, and robins and blue jays and bears and wolves and coyotes.

There are chickens back home.

At night, the clouds take on an eerie red tone. The first time I saw them, I felt as though the sky were about to bleed. It's worse on some nights than others, ranging from the palest of pink to deep, rusty hues. And sometimes there are no clouds, and the sky is clear and dark... but I can rarely see stars. Or perhaps I'm just used to seeing more, used to the darkness of Kauai nights, the clarity of Kauai's skies. There are no red clouds at home. The sky is lit with a thousand stars, and the clouds are white, or gray, or black, depending on the strength of the moon.

I can always hear the ocean back home. Here, I can always hear the trains.

I tried to find similarities for a time: In Oregon, it's green. It rains. It can get pretty damn hot. The people are wonderful. The weather fluctuates. It's cold in the winter. It snows from time to time. There are eagles, and vultures, and other predatory animals. There are big cities. There are mountains, and only one line of coast, and you can't swim in the ocean without a wet suit.

There are trains, and freeways.

There are skyscrapers.

I am not very good at finding similarities.

I woke up one morning to a thick blanket of fog outside my window. I ran out and wandered around in it, smiling in the chill. It was around this time that it finally hit me: Oregon's not like Kauai. But for the next four years at least, Oregon is like home.

For the next four years, Oregon is home. And I might as well get used to it.