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a winter cadence

The muses and ghosts that are the winds of Santa Fe and the land of New Mexico are numerous and undeniable. The manifestation of ego and intense material culture that results can be ignored.

Here, now, at the dawn of winter, there is hardly anyone. It is deserted.  And there is a unique cadence. A particular rhythm. All conversation is different. 

The sound of winds and voices are a vibration that is sharp but low – a chanting. No rise – no fall; a rhythm, a hum, an Om. A particular cadence unique to this cool glowing bright time of year.   


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