The mountains shift like dream-beings, timeless, unhidden, their silence holding more than words can say. Rotten fruit turns to rivers— deep, silver veins of earth, skies spilling canyon-fire, blue and red, a haunting carved 4,000 years ago still breathing through stone. I walk into it, and the horizon opens— clouds becoming ancestors. A bird glides, heart carried across the burning sky, over wild spaces painted with pigments of vulnerability. The air is smoke and spirit, bitter on my tongue, sweet in my bones. I wonder how long can I hold the sacred? Presence is a hidden treasure, wild and untamed— like cactus rising from dusty clay and earth thorns gleaming, skin smooth with secret water. I open my arms, cactus-shaped, rooted in the unseen, alive in the desert’s spell. We are not apart. We are this.