As it rises, the canyon cuts more deeply into the stone, now five hundred, maybe a thousand feet below the sky-capped rim. As I sit, the sun on my back, a snake of contentment uncoils inside of me—an odd sense that, for this moment, it doesn’t matter, any of it.
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And although it’s true that I rarely find what I imagined I wanted when I set out into the desert, I rarely return without something I needed—a stone, a bird’s song, a thought, a view deep into the meat of the earth, a single red blossom amid a sea of yellow stone.

And above it all rise the hard blacks and brown and ochres of the high Utah desert—a broken place, and because it is broken a place where anything is possible.
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