By this point in the morning, the sweet early light was shifting into the brutal intensity of noon.
The rich colors of dawn were bleached away leaving only a glaring harshness.
We stood in a low area where the dunes shielded the sharp wind that was stirring from the alkali flats.
There were a few solitary mesquite that had not been covered by the shifting sand that stood out as sharp, even defiant counterpoints,
subtlety altering the wind enough to carve small depressions in its wake.
A few remnant shadows clung to the high dunes; soon the sun would melt them away.

There was a harsh clarity to what was here; it was serene,
yet there was evident a quiet power lurking in the mesquite enabling it to persist in these brutal conditions.
Any life here had earned its right to exist.
For the time being the mesquite had more solidity than the slowly shifting dunes that were persistently morphing into new forms and hollows.

This was a sacred place.

I began feeling self-conscious that my footprints
would break the fragile sense of order
that was evident in the mosaic of ripples across the sand.
Respectfully I stood there a long time just soaking it in;
trying to find my place in this scheme of things,
listening for even muffled sounds
and only hearing the silence broken by my breathing.