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For the last few nights, the desert air has whispered its breath through our windows. A defined chill passes through the pores of our screen. I hug my Jaipuri blanket and sink into the warmth of our bed. Outside cars hurry by even though it is almost ten o’clock at night. Chimes ring with a faint echo. Coyotes howl their stories. Overhead I hear the swooshing of a helicopter that strums a little song. Within minutes, a change steers the air in a different direction. It is quiet. I hear my own rhythm. A silence glides in just as easily as the noises from this out-of-tune symphony go.

To read more of this essay please visit First Day Press.

Image: “Little Sable Lighthouse” by Charles Dawley via Flickr.

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