The geology is so stark.
I want to know the details of every minute physical action that created every layer of marine sediment, every chemical reaction that cast the limestone, a white adherent between darker casts; I want to listen to every windstream, calm and silent, loud and violent, that wore away the soft dune sands, sent organic boulders cascading down the side of ancient seabeds turned desert monuments; I want to sit timeless on the bluff, surrounded by dark Southwestern clouds in bluest of distant skies, watching the rains come down, turn washes into raging rivers, clear waters into red mud flows, buttes into pebbles.
Time is laid so bare.
The creation time, layer by layer of the ocean’s carbons settling, sedimentary, a never told tale of how one layer is thick and bright and another thin and dark.
Ancient seas. Creatures’s bones lie buried.
The erosion time, the timeless patience of wind and water, finding resistance in the path of least resistance, displaying the vast sameness of stitches of time across an entire plateau, a harsh white line across the whole horizon, taking grains of sand along on gales to beat down the edges of its mother rock, leaving spires standing, crumbling in time.
The logic of it all, gravity and all that I know of adhesion and abrasion, a snapshot of geologic time, and I’m not even a millisecond.
