Walk along a ridgeline in summer, and waves of heat contort your view. Distant trees shimmer in the hot air separating you and them. High overhead, a hawk rides the thermals. Below, a silvery strand winds through the valley, large lazy curves of water that have found the path that is easiest, for now. It is hot out here, exposed. Your feet catch on the uneven ground, and you kick up dust. A rock slides out from under your shoe and bounces down, down. Your feet carry you onwards. You pay good enough attention to them, but more so to the trees, and the river, and the hawks. The longer you walk, the more attention you pay to the thoughts in your own head. In reverie, you soon realize that you are cool for the first time in a while. You are not on the ridge anymore, but in its shadow, indeed, in the valley. The stark horizon is gone, as are the waves of heat, replaced with a softness, trees muffling noise all around you. Needles are underfoot now, rather than dust. When did ridge become …