My feelings about the desert can be summed up in these pictures. The heat coming off the sandstone. The cool shade of the canyons. The dead and live pinions twisted by the wind. At sunset, a soft ponderous silence settles over everything and you can sit there on the edge of the esplanade, awash in light holding every color of the spectrum.
Around about November, I can't help thinking about the desert now and then—wishin it was a little closer, maybe an eight-hour drive away? If it were, I'd be there right now, typing this from a picnic table on the rim of a rincon. However, such places are many days traveling away, so I'll settle for the kind of pictures (and dreams!) that—on a deeply soggy morning like this one—give tired men hope.