It's the haze that does you in. You troop through a glorious, jagged canyon, marveling at the red red rocks and the firmness of the packed sand. You run your fingers along the side, shaving off sprinkles of rock. Tiny pieces all pressed on top of each other to make a mountain.

Then the haze settles in. Where did you come from, you ask it politely. It offers no response, just swishes by. It's not a wet haze--a mere dizziness--a cloud. Everything goes purpley around you, and you sit down on a green boulder.

It's not a bad haze really. You stand up and trek along. The sprinkles of rock still shave off, like a snow cone. You would like a snow cone. You would like a nap.

So, you curl up on the purple canyon floor, with the salamanders and the status flowers. You close your eyes on the purpley haze. One morning, you will wake up and see the mountain again. But the purpley haze has its pretty features.

photo by Dominique Saks.