Morning showed up raw, all pale blue and bony—the kind of light that makes every scar on the mesa stand out.

I crawled out of my bag, feeling the grit on my teeth and the ache in my hips. The coffee water barely wanted to boil. High elevation, but maybe just stubbornness. I couldn’t tell, or find it in me to care..

(There wasn’t much to care about these days since the radios went silent. Even the coffee forgot what joy felt like.)

A magpie touched down nearby, feathers flashing. Like a warning or a dare. She watched me fuss with the stove, head cocked, sharp as a judge.

“Fuck.”

“You here to critique my technique or just steal my breakfast?” I asked, voice still gravelly from dreams.

She sidestepped, eyeing a crumb, then flicked her wings as if to say, I’ve seen better camps. I’ve seen worse, too.

A big horned sheep showed up farther off, just a silhouette against the gorge, moving with that slow, deliberate stubbornness you only see out here, like he knows he belongs but isn’t above reminding you that you’re only a guest. He paused, staring me down like he was weighing my worth.

“You got any wisdom this morning?” I called.

He chewed, blinked, and wandered on as if the question wasn’t even worth answering.

I poured coffee, burnt as always, and let my eyes wander. Antelope never come close on this side. You only really see them near the border, right where New Mexico forgets itself… and starts becoming Colorado. Their flashes really gone before you can focus, reminding me that some things are always just out of reach—a different kind of freedom you only get a glimpse of.

Horses drifted in the distance, manes tangled, moving like smoke across the grass. Some mornings they come close, snorting at the tent, testing if you’ve left anything worth stealing today. They kept their distance, blending into the horizon as if to say, we’re here, but not for you, to which I always reply, just wait till I run out of gas.

I sipped my coffee, watching the magpie hop closer, bold enough to snag a stale crust.

“You ever want to be somewhere else?” I asked her, not expecting an answer.

She laughed—that wild magpie laugh—and flew off, black and white against the hard blue sky.

The sheep disappeared toward the gorge, antelope only a memory out on the borderland, horses turning their backs to the wind. The mesa stretched out, endless, familiar, and… just a little bit lonely.

See, that’s the thing. Out here, you’re never really alone, but you still miss the company you’ve lost. The animals keep their own counsel, coming and going as they please, and all you can do is settle in, keep the fire low, and listen for whatever small story the land will let you have.

I packed up camp, hands working slow, nostalgia flickering but not dragging me under. The sun climbed higher, burning off what was left of the night, and I let myself laugh—soft and honest—knowing the mesa would remember this morning long after I was gone, my dream echoing in my ear.

Remember the story, follow the spiral. You’re not lost, just turning.