She poured my coffee black. “Honey,” she said, “that’s just what we call the hour before the heat hits.”
I hiked to a mesa where the wind doesn’t sound like wind. It sounds like a harmonica playing two notes off-key. I closed my eyes. For a second, I felt her. Sienna West. Searching for- sienna west in-
But I found the color in the wing of a raven at sunset. I found it in the patina of an abandoned gas station. I found it in the space between a sigh and the next breath. She poured my coffee black
There is a color that exists only for twenty minutes at dusk. Painters call it Sienna —raw when it’s earthy, burnt when it’s been kissed by fire. But I was looking for Sienna West . I closed my eyes
By noon, the raw earth catches fire. The monoliths cast shadows like spilled ink. This is burnt sienna —the color of rust, of old trucks, of the skin on a cowboy’s neck.
If you go looking for Sienna West, don’t pack a GPS. Pack a pair of sunglasses and a loose definition of the word “there.”
Tell me about your version in the comments. I think we’re all driving toward it. Next week: Searching for “Cobalt Midnight” in the canyons of Utah.