> jumping into life.

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But I am also made of juniper and cottonwood. I am also made of sagebrush and tufts of coyote fur snagged on the barbed wire fence.

The desert is also in my heart.

Dawn of the second day found our train in Utah: sunrise over the mesas, cloaked in glittering snow. My heart sang with it, sang through the red canyons, the lonesome flats, all cross-stitched with the tracks of desert things. We came into the mountains. I read rabbit and coyote and elk in the snow.

I have sandstone bones.

The man with the gold rings calls this landscape desolate. He says barren. He wrinkles his nose.

My heart sings. I am made of snakeskin, scorpion, and spine. I am made of silence and bright, sharp stars.

I read mice, mule deer, the brown lanes of cattle, the wandering wide steps of geese along the creekbeds, we pass magpies, bald eagles, a flock of ravens that goes on and on and on.

There are some tracks I cannot read.

I am made of mystery, of the shadow under the stone.

good to have some of your writing to catch up on, thanks

There's something about deserts. I haven't seen enough, but I remember the train through the Gobi — all that emptiness. And the desert lands of Rajasthan and Gujarat — I wanted to walk out into them and on forever. Thanks for reminding me of these wonderful places. Beautiful, powerful writing (as usual).

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