The trail to the mesa leads through pitted lava rocks—reds and browns embedded in its steep incline. Wind borne dust sweeps across sagebrush and prickly pear cactus. Below, a mist disperses over the red willow lining the banks of the Rio Grande.

grasslands gone
shadow-waves
of mountains

surrendering
to the silence
a raven’s crow

The desert feels inert, yet is always transforming itself. Faint brush strokes of broken branches litter the landscape. Dislodged rocks roll down a gully split by rain. Here the first white sego lilies scatter their fragrance and faith might be reborn. 

a burst of amber
on the piñon
an insect’s bore

smoothness of stone
in my hand . . .
losing track of time