A longer ride than I remember from the last time I came to this famed creek, now, yields mostly a littered landscape with cow bones and sharp mesquite. Far in the distance I see the grove of sycamore, the roots thick to thin as they edge along the bank. I move close to some tiny roots and see nested inside granite eggs and dense bark sections of the trunk. Teeth of stones are slotted between the embrace of the thick roots. The slick bodied trunks have small breasts and rippling thighs that lead up to the cool blue sky, clear and serene.