Three miles into the canyon Allen Springs flows over rocks and sand, past sweetgrass and pine where owls stand guard, green eyes in shimmering dark; a wolf, sand dimpled under silent steps, lifts its nose to a scent, calls out to her tribe. By morning: mist – the ground covering dunes with its breath. The last prey escapes one more night. I toss sagebrush then wood to whet the embers. It seems sometimes everything opens up, a fan painted with stars, hills and valleys unfold into plains, mountains; until distance loses its scale, and the spring, the owl, the wolf, the stars disappear under a bluing sky.