We rise early, collapsing our tents into sleepy red rock, already alight and glowing with the sunrise. Everything is monochrome, unutterable as the birth of seashell moons. A place consisting of texture: the worn-down igneous folds, the mirrored stillness of water. Human silhouettes lean like saw-toothed pines, always in the act of distancing. Twenty hands grasping at the gunnels, lowering heavy-set canoes into the resiliency of water.
Mostly, I think about granite.
The soft green recedes when you drive north on Highway 69, until coral-coloured cliffs tower over pavement. Rattlers sun themselves in the grooved afternoons, pressing their bodies against the crevices. Wind-swept water and trees, reindeer moss underfoot, the cinnamon-sweet smell of blueberries. Something always raw & unmarred. An emptiness that becomes etched with memory.
The soft green recedes when you drive north on Highway 69, until coral-coloured cliffs tower over pavement. Rattlers sun themselves in the grooved afternoons, pressing their bodies against the crevices. Wind-swept water and trees, reindeer moss underfoot, the cinnamon-sweet smell of blueberries. Something always raw & unmarred. An emptiness that becomes etched with memory.
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