Photo by Mark Cunningham I saddle, mount, and boot the horse forward toward a deeply cut path of fringed roots and barren mesquites. Thorns and limbs reach upward and out like the clawed arthritic hands of an old witch. The sky begins to blow. Shake. Fade. A gunshot echoes. Shadows stretch and twist and lean in, searching for a foothold. A stronghold. A victory. Over what, I don't know. I dismount and lead the horse, my white knight against the dark emptiness. His focus is st

In 1903, a man named Wilson Bentley attached a camera to his microscope and took pictures of individual snowflakes. He was the first to do so, and through his pictures we came to realize no two snowflakes are alike. I find his photographs amazing. Snowflakes form, of course, when warm air collides with another air mass or weather front and condensation takes place. But the water must have something to adhere to, so it grabs hold of bacteria or dust in the air, and upon freezi

A good road starts out smooth and wide and narrows as you go, begins known but ends a stranger, is messy - wind in hair, dirt in air. It is a long, deep stretch, a song that never ends. There should be wildflowers, shades of yellow and violet, dangling and leaning into the breeze, sighing – waiting for a solitary traveler. There should be treasure, hidden behind locked gates, in secret culverts. An unplanned tire change along the way - a moment of hesitation. Doubt. A good ro

You do too much. You don't do enough. Don't drink, or don't drink too much. Dress this way. Act this way. Smile regardless. Ignore the...

El Capitan, Guadalupe Mountains National Park Which do you like better, I was asked the other day, riding or writing? Riding, I replied...

I sent photos of mountains with their little white caps, of rolling fields of gold, of sun-warmed foothills and glowing waves. Then I...

When I was a girl, my favorite color was tulle. The blush of a tutu. The satin of a pointe shoe. I believed. When I was a young woman, my...

As the horse pushes forward, I close my eyes, hips moving in syncopated rhythm with his. I reach out, caressing the wind, and slide further into the depths of my mind. He is the calming of my wild. He knows all my secrets. As night falls I sit, watching this muse stretch his legs inside a portable hot-wire fence and a backdrop of silk stroked by the rising moon. And there is nothing else to do but let the day roll off us both. The buzz of an occasional mosquito and the distan

I don’t count miles when I ride, it’s not about them anyway. Often, I turn or cut back before trail end. Before climbing the summit – but...

Five feet above the rusty ground, swaying with each step of the horse like the rolling tides of the ocean that seems so very far away in this hot desert land. My feet light in the stirrups, my heels down, my hips grounded. My hands are low and close to the saddle horn, the bit and shanks gentle in his mouth. The wind arrives, as it always does, announcing the coming dusk. Pulling back the curtains if you will. And it is a production - this sunset with its song and dance, its

How do you clean up a lifetime of rubble, the broken bits and pieces strewn shotgun across the land. Do you sweep it under the rug and...

Unwanted. She is a mangy thing after all. Her fur a patchwork of desert sand and ash, bristled and wiry. Lush in places, starved in others. I have seen her before, this coyote, alone in the desert as we are now. No fear, no threat - only comfort. A wire fence stands between us - one of those square knotted things they use for goats or sheep, or to keep the hogs from crossing the road perhaps. They are everywhere it seems. She moves effortlessly through this wasteland, dodging

You cannot stop another from loving you. There is only one decision – does their definition match yours? I didn’t even know I had a...

I met a man in Ajo the other day, I could see the boy in him still. Another in Columbus. Where’re ya going cowgirl? A glance downward...

It is not my job to please another. Nor yours for that matter. In southern Arizona he wind is still blowing and my face is warm from the sun. The grass moves with the horse’s mane shifting to and fro and the dog continues digging - head down in a hole, rear up. He is determined, this one. Off to the east, a raven perches on a naked limb and when the horse moves off he dips down for water. But the wind, the wind has its own voice. It is a clear and true language and as I write

In a world of black and white I see permeations of gray. Likely some holdover from long ago when love hid in disguise behind a simple incongruency of words and actions. Behind judgement and shame. I carried it with me and took it as mine, you see. It never was. So I ride this horse. Away from the dark clouds rolling in low across the horizon, toward the clear sky where desert bleeds into more desert until nothing but the ocean stands in its way. It’s been a while, this on-the

This house is full of dust. It is doubtful it will ever be clean. I sweep and sweep but it penetrates every crack and crevice. And I bend...

If I had a secret code, it would be one of eagles and roosters. Of stars nesting in blackness. The simmer of an arced flame and the slow...

Of being alone with being lonely. You see, both have their place. Just as the sun completes the moon and the rain gives way to clear blue...

The year I move into my own, away from those who bring the rain and hold on tight to the sun instead. The year I learn to love myself....