Central Phoenix: Season of Blossoms

As soon as I stepped outside I could smell it: orange blossoms.  Memories of San Diego summers.  Visceral.  My body is on a memory journey all its own.  Days gone by.  Childhood tail end of an orange blossom Americana.  I have that in Phoenix, a world constantly evolving but somehow unchanged.  A steadfast pulsing belief that this is the way it should be. A collection of the refused and absurd, cowboys and sheriffs and the right and left.  We don't touch the orange blossoms.