The Story of My Place

I live where water yearns to be weightless, where the air is thirsty, where each and every molecule of water disappears into a love affair with the still, blue sky.

I cannot tell if I am a mirror to My Place, or if My Place is a mirror to myself. Does Skunk Canyon, shimmering after the late summer monsoons, look upon my soul and see itself as I stroll through its tall grass?