Follow me to the wash, its bed of smoothed earth. Whatever coats you are wearing, leave them. It is warm here. We will fold them at the feet of redrock and sage, under the shade of greasewood, and the song of a canyon wren.
As the trail deepens and walls grow, I will tell you simply how my story changed. Each word will be but waves in the air around us, curving off swept rock and falling into you. This word, that word, and the silence in between.
How deep will you let them go?