I waited for the exact week when the cottonwoods in Coyote Gulch turn electric gold against the towering alcove. Composing from within the pool itself, I let the water thread through sculpted channels of stone — each worn smooth by centuries of current — and flow toward me in silken ribbons. Scattered leaves, red and yellow, clung to the dark rock as the season passed. The deep turquoise pool held still while everything above it moved: water, light, leaves releasing one by one. The orange wall rose behind it all, ancient and intimate. Standing in that water, surrounded by color and stone, the gulch felt less like a place you visit and more like one that claims you — a deep, unhurried baptism.
