Inside, all is whitewashed plaster. But all exterior walls have been whitewashed and on them crooked lines of black characters are scrawled and scrunched, hand painted. Where the roadway cuts into the Earth, the bared rock is whitewashed and filled with characters too. Drying asphalt, vapour rises. I ride, knowing later will come the regret.
Broken squalls interleave sunshine and scattered droplets.
Weaving through the valley, climbing, climbing. Compass swings through four points. East, then south, then north, then west, east again and south. Steep, rocky, narrow and low, a geological maze in its velvety cloak of low brush and cottonwood. Here the rain cannot find the solitary rider.