Wednesday on the Migrant Trail is one of the hardest days for me. This is where so many migrants have died in their journey north. 

We climb down deep into the desert. The soil ground to powder by the Border Patrol vehicles coats my nostrils, my mouth, my ear canals. Even under the sheltering mesquite trees in camp, the bluest blue sky seems oppressive. 

Up north where I live, the skies are different. Smaller and greyer, they are softened by clouds and trees. In May, the blue overhead gently watches over a world waking up to life.