On Guthrie Mountain cloudy grey skies block the stars, light from Tucson reflects off the clouds and floods into the mountains. Thru the camera lens the city lights are white hot metal, the clouds rising steam – the energy coming from the city is unfathomable, tonight it seems like Moloch’s incomprehensible prison is Howling out into the mountains.

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

The images and thoughts above are fleeting – most of my overnight is the simple joy of being outside, nothing to do with Ginsberg’s anger and frustration – old graffiti and new flowers on the Green Mountain Trail; thick lines of black ants, new ferns and water at Maverick Spring; blackened trees, new views and fresh flowers in the Burro Fire burn that covers most of Guthrie Mountain and the ridge out to and past Point 7162.