The desert is so immense I seem to float through my car’s front window into the striped mesas’ shimmer, inhaling sun, exhaling shadow. The silence is painted bands of time, each color a different voice. I brake, as if I could stop what was once forest.

Stepping out into molten light, my footsteps sound small. Breathing slow, I can sense someone walking here once before—without keys or camera, carrying a damp clay vessel. Humming, she stoops to lift a brilliant talisman.

vaulted sky—
I pour bottled water 
over my head 

Bio: Beverly A. Tift