The four men paused in accord at the summit of the hill. They walked the horses, but the need for haste was in them. Below this place, where they loomed against a sky which contained no other largeness or shape than the largeness and shape of itself, the stage road sliced empty, a narrow scar on a shifting flesh of sand. The wild spring desert flowed away and beyond this shallow cicatrix, running straight as an arrow shaft, then curving into the vacuum of distance, along the miles of massed mauve and blue bloom born of the rains.
- From A Time in the Sun by Jane Barry