I wake to the hush of the mesa, to a sky so wide it could hold tomorrow.
Out back—Mount Sedgwick, steady as faith.
Out front—Mount Taylor, ancient and waiting.
Between them, a promise: this is my home, this is America.
We are the children of opportunity, raised on the hum of power lines and prayer, a people who can sit in silence and hear music, who can speak our minds without fear of the knock at the door.
Freedom is not noise—it is breath, and it fills these valleys like sunlight through the piñon trees.
The world is changing—fast.
Nations rise, alliances shift, the balance tilts like a compass needle searching for north. But here in Cibola, the earth still remembers us.
The veins of uranium beneath our boots glow like the pulse of possibility— dangerous, yes, but holy too, a reminder that even in the darkest rock, light sleeps.
They call this a time of crisis.
I call it a time of awakening.
Because we have what the world needs: the courage to work, the faith to build, the beauty to believe again.
This land— these hills and hollows, these hands that till and weld and write— they are part of something vast.
When America looks for power, for hope, for the energy to rise again, she will find it here, where the mountains watch and the people endure.
I love this place.
Not just for what it was, but for what it could be— a county that lights a nation, a nation that lights the world.
Opportunity is not a gift, it’s a calling.
And I hear it every morning, when the sun burns gold on Taylor’s face and Sedgwick whispers back across the valley— carry the torch.