As the sun rose the fog among the pines turned from gray to white as though someone had thrown green wood on the fire. Shadows grew long across the sidewalk and parking lot. The school stands in a shallow dip, a creek erased by concrete and landscaping. Fog lingered in the morning glare until a wind pushed it away like a collapsible wall.
On the first morning of my only visit to New Mexico, a friend drove us early to Albuquerque’s West Mesa to see the petroglyphs and watch the sun rise. An anomalous December rain had fallen overnight and shreds of fog clung to the desert. The air was cool and scented with sage. We climbed the rocks and looked at carvings, some dating from the time of Aquinas. The sun rose and quickly burned off most of the fog, and the road surface steamed. A wind rose and cleared the air in minutes, leaving rock and sunlight.
"The sunlight pours unbroken through the wind."
[The sentence is from Lewis’ “Paho at Walpi.” A paho is a Hopi prayer stick, as the poem suggests with “supplication,” “gratitude,” “entreaty.’ Walpi is a pueblo in northeastern Arizona, one of the oldest continuously inhabited villages in the United States.]