It feels like we are the only people in the valley. It feels like we are the only people in the world.
It’s the quality of sound that surprises me most.
Just stand here and be quiet for a moment, our guide tells us. Listen. What do you hear?
Nothing, my son says.
But the stillness has a sound. A presence.
It’s more than the individual sounds.
The scream of the hawk. The wind in the pines. The song of the meadowlark.
And then a noise I can’t place. A vibration. A pounding.
Our guide points across the river to the herd of wild mustangs. They gallop across the plains, dust flying under their hooves, then race single file into a draw.
We stand in silence, awed.