I search for muses in these hills. I find them tangled in bone piles and gnarled sagebrush roots; smiling with their unbridled inner knowing, harboring the richness of their secrets. They are hidden in the rocks and you can feel them under your hands when you climb those steep ridges. The wind will tell you all about them. Next time he whistles through the trees, I suggest that you stop and listen. They have many faces: some are woefully contorted and deep like the crevices of canyons, with pockets of sand and grit in and under their skin, with a voice as dusty as the desert. Others are beautiful and lush like the old growth forests, where their very touch is cool and calm, and they smell like the memory of moss. They are the babbling brooks and the gesture of windswept clouds in a vast expanse of open sky. Some are subtle, some are boisterous. Some run rampant, some prefer their slumbering hermitude.

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