I'd driven three days from San Francisco, arriving in Santa Fe on a cold March morning. "Where's the town?"
I asked. "Somewhere in that direction," she pointed into the mist. Then one bright morning, as if light was
bending around itself, the plaza appeared, cobbled together with restaurants, art galleries, museums and a
church with a gift shop and a showcase with the requisite relics of old saints.

Returning to a rainstorm then cold sunlight in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristos that once synched my
heartbeats with pulses of the mountain's moods; plaza teeming with jostling tourists; art galleries hanging
the same paintings glossed over forty years ago.

To the northeast, Pole Mountain rises,
Bent- and Carson Peaks breach the horizon,
walled off by the Rio Grande, reaching up to
mountain passes inside the sky.

During the 1930s, summering in Santa Fe and Taos, artists from New York, imagined the possibilities
of a "tradition that is always in a state of transformation." A few settled, among them Georgia O'Keeffe,
a painter to whom the senex, the archetype that "expresses all that is old, ordered and established,"
was not about aging, but of dissolving the salts of the land into the colors of her paints.