South of Moab, Utah. July 2017.

There is a hole in the stone where the sky leaks through. Forward window. Vista chance. How the rock wall submitted. Let the elements have their way. Beige, pink, red-brown striations mark time like tree rings. Show wrinkled wear like faces weathered by sun and wind, worn down by age. Green relief of shrubs, wildflowers, scrub grasses. Cool tones for scorching desert. Cool blue above to bring us all down a degree or two, just by looking, just by thinking, Blue, thinking, Water. Clouds’ moisture, all the hope they hold for rain. Monsoons to run arroyos into rivers and tear stain stone, smooth everything out over time. There is healing in the notion that all of it—rock, sky, rain—preceded and will outlast us. To be so old you have seen it all, all the human folly, lost lessons, all the repeats, risks, reductions. Oh, yes, the diminishment of lives and resources. The rocks hold their place in time, hold heads high in pride for not being one of us. They let us climb, scale, walk, touch, take, and photograph. They know we humans will move on, leave behind, forget, or look away, because we always do.

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