The lone rider was descending slowly down the eastern slopes of the Sangre de Cristo range in Colorado. It looked like he might cross highway 150 and head for the surreal Great Sand Dunes to the west that were just a melting clock away from a Salvador Dali painting.
There was a good feeling about the horse and the rider. They felt together and yet somehow alone in the best possible way. It was hard to tell who was leading whom. Was it the rider? The horse? Or maybe the majestic sands were pulling them forward?