The deserts of the West are expansive. Vast areas of few roads and small communities but filled with beauty. The inroads we take to explore these days come to us from those who lived, explored, planted, dug and built in years past. There are stories in the dust, the stones, shards of pottery, rusted implements and wood weathering away to gray dust. Whispers. Evidence of journeys, dreams and lives lived out over time. Off road and far between small towns I came across this lonely grave; a place where death had crossed someone’s path many years ago. It was marked only with stones and a weathered wooden cross marked, “Crowther Baby”. I have painted in this area many times over the years. I visit the grave when I pass through. It is not totally forgotten. Some years the rocks are tidied and new plastic flower or two are left. Evidence of “crossroads” of a different kind. The other painting is a view from this grave as I turn my back to it and gaze towards another “landmark” (more noticeable) in this… beautiful… barren… and sometimes meditative landscape.