The bright ground remembers every wind

At first light, the field looks almost unmarked. Then the sun clears the ridge and every shallow fold takes on a blue edge. I spent three February mornings following those edges, watching a night of wind redraw the route before breakfast.

The shadow is the map

Gypsum does not hold heat like ordinary sand. It throws light back, leaving the cool troughs to describe the movement instead. A ranger told me to stop looking for a horizon; the useful line, she said, is always the next crest.