The desert fool sits between a Joshua Tree and a pile of boulders. He thinks of himself as a Lone Ranger type in this land of very little spoken word. His golden mask made for a masquerade, but seemingly appropriate for this lanky bandit lost in his own revelry. The sun warms his smile as he sits there and ponders what it must be like to be one of these humble trees, with heads and arms all contorted in several different directions. So rooted in the ground so as to let the madness soar in every which way above the earth up towards the heavens.
He stands up and begins to contort his body in its own natural way. Raising his arms above his sombrero in a sun salutation and his legs into some kind of binded anchor. He lifts his wbole weight up onto his tippy toes and accelerates his gestural dance until he himself has sprouted several more arms and heads.
Here the magic tells him it is very normal to want to pass on and be reborn a tree. Even the desert crow and the wandering coyote entertain the idea. Still one must be very wild to grow in the desert.