Sometimes the sun is still trying to get to the horizon when a daylight moon comes up, fragile and almost transparent, the ghost of a white bird with damaged wings, blown from its course and lost in the huge desert sky. It is the least protected of all unprotected things. A little wind goes by through the greasewood heading home to its nest among blue-veined stones where it will circle three times and curl up to sleep before darkness falls straight down like a tile from the roof of a tall building. There are families of stones under the ground. As the young stones grow they rise slowly like moons. When they reach the surface they are old and holy and when they break open they give off a rich odor, each blooming once in the light after centuries of waiting. Those who have lived here longest and know best are least conspicuous. The oldest mountains are lowest and the scorpion sleeps all day beneath a broken stone. If I stay here long enough I will learn the art of silence. When I have given up words I will become what I have to say.