A magical day...

The old gypsies decided it was time to go out again!  So they jumped into their gypsy wagon and drove all the way to the dessert—to the sand dunes and to the night birds and coyotes in the far distance…
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They got to their campsite by mid-day, but first, they stopped at the little office-museum for ice-cream, then continued straight up onto the winding road to their camp.  Under a semicircle of Russian Olive trees they parked their gypsy wagon—under the trees, and under all the fuss and excitement of birds and birdsongs everywhere beneath purple blue summer skies.

They made lunch and then sat down to eat it and rest and read and listen to the sweltering voices of Nature.  It was a sizzling hot 93 degrees.  Other campers were dozing off the afternoon away, lending in their slumber, all the softness and soundlessness required to a perfect afternoon.  In the distance the mountains slept too.  Sand dunes fizzed and sparkled with sunlight in the far distance and little white butterflies hovered and sang mysterious songs above green grasses ‘round the gypsy wagon.

How beautiful… how very beautiful it all was!  The gypsy crone, that same who not too long ago used to be called “the gypsy girl”, sat down and dreamed of a little white cottage built at the verge of this great openness of sagebrush and mountains and sand dunes and birds of prey and owl songs and soft green grasses under her feet. She dreamt she grew a set of big orange wings under her arms that took her all the way up to the very tips of mountains… over there where foothills and sky unite and form an unbreakable sisterhood of promises and hopes and dreams untold.

She thought it was real, all real indeed! But too soon was she awakened by a deep slumbering sweat that made her realized it had all been but a beautiful dream. The old crone and her fisherman had to go inside their gypsy wagon to escape the heat.  They turned the air-conditioning on high and drank bottles and bottles of icy-cold water.  

Soon it felt wonderful again.  The air conditioning puffed and huffed and made huge noises and blew curtains away and it felt as if they were inside some humongous air balloon ready to be lift up… everything becoming smaller and smaller down on earth… the old crone looked down upon the earth and recited:

From a blade of grass to sand,

Moments light

Moments gone

Moments infinite time

And to grain of sands

Do all things return…

Oh my dears! Heat does tend to do strange things to your brain, doesn’t it!

Later, they decided to go down to the lake and try doing some fishing; although they already knew the outcome… no fish would had dared swim out there in boiling waters at that time of day, no sir!  But, down to the lake they went anyway…
  

To their most wonderful amazement, they were received by a totally different atmosphere—breezes coming from the water scuttled through sand dunes and mountaintops tousling the old gypsy's hair and her heart; tempering the atmosphere and making waves in the water and bending tall grasses… 

...and it felt cool… so cool and wonderful and love songs floated atop the water and atop these young couple’s head…

And maybe we should had gone back the minute we saw them… 'cause, well, they were already there before we arrived and because we were the biggest love spoilers ever! 

But the Fisherman was obliged to catch some fish... or underwater weed!

And it was so beautiful and cool and so peaceful there that the old gypsy girl decided to stay around too… and continued on dreaming and taking pictures... 

They walked over to the Observatory and went to visit the Human Sundial… then stood in the right place and let the sun bewitched them...

That evening they sat outside again.  Temperatures in the desert can really change fast depending on the time of day, and how beautiful… how very beautiful and cool and wonderful everything looked and felt and the gypsy crone couldn’t stopped taking pictures in the hope she somehow could captured and retain the beauty all around them forever more... if only in her camera lenses…

Magic filled every space and the old gypsy crone seemed to floated above the branches; pirouetting on the tip of a birch leaf... the more magic she gathered, the more magic it spilled out... strange animals with purple fur would appear out of nowhere and birds flew so close she could even touch them…

During sunset magic was in its summit… the sky turned into a fairytale book, page after page of glory.  The old gypsy crone could see the tendrils of magic fluttering around her like ribbons…  

What a lovely magical, magical day that was!