A slow-waving paper fan – or is it perhaps an exhaling lung? – pushes droplets of sound across Last Light at Sonora Pass. They tremble when they hit the surface. A patch of rough-edged reeds tangles self-consciously.
The sun rises on command as you open your palms to the edge of the horizon. There’s Gold In These Hills doesn’t insist; you can rest your ears; settle in at your own pace. It nestles in the feeling of emptying all the air from your lungs and taking a deliberate, steady breath.