I walked out early,
before the sun had made its promises,
to More Mesa,
where the bluff breaks open and the wind speaks in eucalyptus tongues.
The hawk was already there,
turning slow circles above the golden hush.
No sermon,
no scripture,
just the breath of something ancient that had never needed a name.
I thought of the question — the one we keep asking with our opposable thumbs and restless minds:
How shall we live?
Not like the squirrel, who does not weep for its sins.
Not like the fox, who does not hoard the moonlight.
They live without asking.
We ask without living.
But here — here the land was singing,
and the people came not with bulldozers,
but with open hands, with letters, with the kind of hope that walks door to door and stays.
They said, “This place matters.”
And meant it.
So More Mesa was saved — 36 acres of sky and silence, of trail and tide, of fox and owl.
And I, just one walker among many,
stood still and let the silence teach me.
Let the sky remind me.
Let the trail answer.



