Davis McCardle

I walked the canyon at dusk. My grandfather was at the rim. He had no advice for me, which was the only kind that mattered. The moon was already up, patient as it always is.

Later, at moonrise, I came back. The wind moved through the canyon like it knew the way, and I knew it too. The dark, I have come to understand, is not the part to be afraid of.

New work appears when there is something to say, and not before. Stay long enough to learn how the wind turns.

This place is older than it looks. Welcome.

Read slowly. The moon is in no hurry.