A dark triangular rise anchors the lower canvas, and above it the sky opens into the long slow burn of a desert evening — amber, saffron, soft rose, with pine-green cooling the edges. Small calligraphic marks scatter through the upper field like birds or ash caught in the last light. The painting is less a landscape than the memory of one, held in the atmosphere that lingers after a particular hour of a particular day. What the title names is also what the surface holds: warmth that outlasts its source.