Yesterday a rising column of clouds was the last thing to catch the sunlight and with the rosy head of clouds leaning grandly into the wind, I thought I was watching the glowing masthead of some solitary ship plowing out from the obscurity of the dusk.

A desert quail’s upright carriage and feather headdress lend him an air of solemn pomposity, and even when his timid heart fails him, as all timid hearts must, he runs as if one were merely strutting away from danger at double-speed.

At the foot of the hill is a mossy swale where cattails and wild thistle grow. In the wet season, the swale is a bubbling brook, and in the dry season moisture crawls slowly beneath its sand. In the summer the wild thistle blooms turn to wind puffs, and they float up and down the hills like desert sprites.

(that first one needs work still)