Alone, I heard the desert’s song that day.

Pulled over on Highway 67, sun frying my skin, it was too early for the Ghost Lights. Nobody was out there. Nobody. Just music, soft as a flute’s.

Moans from motherless children. Cries from childless mothers. Chants from a thousand Comanche warriors. Wanderers mumbling. Animals ripping into their kill. Prey drawing last breaths. Only once, I heard someone curse God’s name. Perhaps, I thought, not everything belongs to Him.

The desert, in its heat—its coldness—strummed its sad chords like an agonized guitarist. It played beautifully, didn’t give a damn who was listening. So I thought.

The truth is, the desert was silent that day. Mute, dead.

I heard nothing at all.