"Dawn" - January 14, 2021

The crickets have concluded their last orchestral serenade, though the cicadas still echo across the canyon, which is layered with blushing pink, dark granite, pale sandstone. Like a guiro ratcheting up, the cicadas call out, grating my nerves. I slip my toes, pale and cold from poking out of my thermal cloud of a sleeping bag, into a warm pair of slightly scratchy wool socks. I lean back on my hands and peer just outside my vibrantly orange tent zipper and the sun is just peeking above the canyon’s horizon, like a child playing peekaboo with her grandma. The wind jostles my tent, the unzipped sides billowing like a dog’s cheeks when hanging outside a car window. The cold creeps in, tucks itself and nestles itself against my collarbone and down my spine, sending a shake from my shoulders to my hips. I inhale the fresh pine trees, still a dark green, a stark contrast against the bare canyon. The wind pauses and it’s as if Mother Nature is holding her breath, even the cicadas stop chirping. A lone hawk circles, regally riding the currents of the wind, its tail as though it has been dipped in amber red dust.