Foot placement must be made more carefully than a dancer, they have a clear stage whereas you have a writhing mess of life and labor to contend with. The ant hills are large and their armies spread far and wide like Macedonian mascots. Occasionally, there is a beetle, or even two, fucking or fighting or both. Plants stretch into the path, having enjoyed the copious rainfall of this year’s monsoon season. If you can dance this little jig for long enough, because simply smashing through everything isn’t an option to those who can hear the dance of the wind’s song, you will arrive at a tree. It’s a curious tree, alone from all the rest by several hundred feet. Its branches are protected by little triangular green shells that all fold together like origami against the brushings of air. The trunk is gnarled, like a good walking stick should be even though this tree will remain on this hill for most of its life.Not walking to and fro like the ones who visit it. For eventually it will die, and be dragged off by birds and coyotes and humans to improve their dens. But for now it stands, a sentinel against the Sandias, always telling me and my dog to turn around after every visit. For it is the end of the world.