Suede on thick wool socks, flat against a red achilles. I'm sitting with my back against the rest of my hiking group. They're about 50 steps behind me, and I can hear Mom calling my name. I see the desert peaks, blue against the dry, vibrating air. The sky's anything but; I prayed for a gem-encrusted night earlier this morning, but the clouds are rolling in with no intention of slowing. Sunset's in, what, three hours? By the time I'll get to see the sky in her thick, velvet nightgown, she'd probably be masked in a fully grey poncho. The mountains, though, are incredible. I'm supposed to be back with the group to set up tents for the night. The wind drapes its fingertips against the rough of my hair. I could lie here forever, legs criss-crossed like the overlapping branches of a gnarled shrub.
