THE MESA TRAIL 



of tumult grows and dies in passing, as 

 from open doors gaping on a village street, 

 but does not impinge on the effect of soli- 

 tariness. In quiet weather mesa days have 

 no parallel for stillness, but the night silence 

 breaks into certain mellow or poignant 

 notes. Late afternoons the burrowing owls 

 may be seen blinking at the doors of their 

 hummocks with perhaps four or five elf- 

 ish nestlings arow, and by twilight begin a 

 soft whoo-oo-ing, rounder, sweeter, more in- 

 cessant in mating time. It is not possible 

 to disassociate the call of the burrowing 

 owl from the late slant light of the mesa. 

 If the fine vibrations which are the golden- 

 violet glow of spring twilights were to 

 tremble into sound, it would be just that 

 mellow double note breaking along the 

 blossom-tops. While the glow holds one 

 sees the thistle-down flights and pouncings 

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