We’re heading back to Tucson in the morning. We’re just watching the day’s eyes close slowly here in Southern Utah. We’ll leave when the world wakes tomorrow.

Does Earth dream, too? Of course it doesn’t, but I hope it does. I want Earth to have a lucid dream about its own beauty and wake startled into itself the way we feel when we realize we’re more beautiful than we think we are.

Who’s that whistling down the street? A whistle is a bell and a bell is an angel.

Angel of the sandstone. Angel of the desert. Angel of this dry land we curse and pray to and live in and die for.

Angel of sage. Angel of globemallow. Angel of creosote. Of saltbrush and buckwheat and prickly pear and rabbitbrush.

Angel of the bell, of the child’s whistling mouth, of who the child is, where he came from, and where he’s going.

Cloud angel in the sky tatted like a mourner’s black lace.

Laccoloith angel who I’ve seen burn red as fire.

Farm angel with its sweet cows and shy horses.

Illumination angel steadying a light above a herd of cloned white bulls who shine like stars.

Goodnight, Toquerville. Sweet dreams. See you tomorrow, Tucson.