Silence from one edge of the horizon to the other, here in the desert land of New Mexico. I’m three nights into six at a place where I can see the sky from edge to edge and it’s glorious.
What strikes me is the silence. Sometimes there’s a faint song of a coyote off in the distance. On a hike, the wind might rattle through the husks of yucca blossoms. I’m learning to be silent myself: let go of being busy, of thinking so much, and just enjoy the silence of this place. I sit outside and feel the sunlight warm my face even as the wind nips at my finger while I write.
At sunset, I walk over to the windmill that is my muse here. It reminds me of an old photo of my great-grandparents farm west of here, so far west that Arizona was just a short spell down the road. I wait for the light to change but the clouds and sun have already decided to retire for the night. I take what they offer and work with that.
I turn back to walk home and see the moon has come calling. I watch the clouds drift over it and then clear as I wait for the moment. I never know when that moment will come, or even if it will, but this evening it does, finally. I click the shutter and then look up and wink at the moon as I always do, in memory of Neil Armstrong, the first human to stand on its surface.
The temperature has dropped while I’ve been waiting for the moment and the wind picked up, so I hurry inside, leaving the moon and the mesa to put on their show for another wanderer on this cold night.
Once again there was the desert, and that only.