This weekend, in the midst of an unusually warm stretch, I took a walk at Hovenweep to soak up the sunshine and stretch my legs. In the scrubby juniper and broad sagebrush, a Say’s Phoebe offered its lilting song, light and steady in the canyon air.
Along the rim, I paused at the towers and stone walls, still standing after centuries. Up close, you can see the care in the small spall stones tucked between larger blocks, each row leveled by hand with clay mortar. Built without modern tools, yet done with such precision that they endure.
At a moment when the world feels tense and uncertain, it was grounding to stand among structures built by people who understood that survival depends on community. Those structures at Hovenweep are proof that community, care, and shared purpose can leave something lasting behind.
