Have you ever seen the wind, blowing through the canyon? Bending the tree tops as it moves down the gorge? Shushing the sound of silence, you can hear the breeze complain for it has been seen and heard and yet not touched. The old timers call her Maria, and I know why, its not something to be described, only felt. She'll turn in the valley and streak the canyon wall, as you watch the dust close to your face in floating peril, waiting for her relief, the leaves around you almost seem to call for her with their protested stillness. Then with the boiling swet on your shirt you feel her cool embrace, Maria. All things of the mountain, I love her most. Maria.