I miss the sight of Sandia Mountain—
its quiet congregation of morning clouds,
brief visitors dissolving in the first light.

On the bus, with the window as a frame,
I witness a slow-moving masterpiece:
mountain, sunrise, cloud—
a trinity that feels intentional.

Sandia follows me, or so it seems,
a steadfast citadel keeping pace
no matter which road I take.
I wonder what it wants me to know.

My thoughts of the mountain braid themselves
with my thoughts of New Mexico—
its people shaped by the same endurance,
its land carrying the same solemn grace.

When I think of this place,
I see Sandia first: resilient, fortified,
a guardian of all that has held me.
And I am grateful—
for the time, the faces,
the quiet ways this land has rooted itself in me.