Northern Mystery - The river is a woman blind beneath the silver hand of Night, these hills are still, their shadows home to tribes of ancient sand-blown wanderers adrift, the riveras ghost a doora]First footsteps witnessing the sand (unremembered corridor of days ago), first clouds to fill the air, first lamentations rising from the riverbed, from the bare feet of Hohokam migrations, from the hooves of Coronadoas cavalry, from the rims of broken wills and wheels (athe border-jumper cuffed and put in a patrol cara) and endlessly the sun and dust, in clouds from the sandals of the lost Jesuit staggering blind and waterless into the glare of the Northern Mysterya]One upon another come and gone, journeys unrecorded by the sand that shifts and covers over everything (eventually). Historyas a dream. The land itself is just mirage, an old woman tossing and muttering in her sleep, remembering nothing.