The sun hangs low over the mesas, casting long shadows across the PIÑON-covered hills. The air is dry, but fragrant - alive with the warm, smoky scent of piñon wood curling at the bottom of an old adobe chimney. A soft wind moves through the trees, shaking loose a few sticky cones while a raven calls. The moment feels ancient, tethered to the land by the resin-sweet breath of the Piñon trees…