We ride the dry creek of river stones and bluebonnets weaving our way through washouts then backtracking to find a solid path. Past a broken wall of earth where the water finally had its way and the wild burros dig in thirst, drawing whatever moisture there is from the earth.
Pencil cactus, yucca and white-thorn acacia litter the ground and we stop at a tuff of tobosa grass to let the horse graze a moment before moving on.
Above, clouds run without remorse like whisps of ghosts from another time. The smooth face of rock radiates heat as we pass and I lean to place my palm against it as if to absorb the very fire within -- the entire honesty of it.
Hard and soft intertwine like lovers. A low-level ecstasy of scruff against silk. A hidden spring and the musky odor of wet creosote.
The desert ebbs and flows revealing her secrets one at a time. She is of her own mind and cannot be adapted to man.
She ensouls me.