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Honestly I can’t think of a caption for this because Return of the Mack is in my head and that takes precedence. Suppose it’s just as well because sometimes canyons leave you speechless and this place is no exception to that rule.
Never knew a herd of elk was called a gang until now. Not pictured: 100+ other gang members.
Waited a year to post this because pictures of foliage off-season can be jarring
(Pictured here are ripples frozen in ice) While wandering among trees, mud, and all that remains left untouched I thumb through the pages of some cerebral atlas. The stuttered hoo-h’hoo-hoo-hoo-ing of a great horned owl tickles the silence of naked trees both young and old and I pause. I spy the bird before it spies me and we share in a second of pure, unadulterated silence. I drag my heel through the dirt in some feeble effort to clear a path for myself. Oh, you’d love this. I suppose you will in time. In time. The day wanes so fast, yet time so slow. I glance at my watch and humor myself with the convenience of changing the hour on a whim just by twisting the crown. How peculiar it is to see the minute hand nudge further around the watch face while time stands still. At least for you. I digress to that atlas in my head and earmark a page—for it is there you will be in time. And until that time? Well, Mother, somewhere there is a heart-shaped trail—well-trod—where people walk for you infinitely.
Oh, the things I want to show you. And will in time, I suppose. Oh, the world I’ve breathed in, the world I’ve exhaled. I’ve counted the beats, feeling tremors in my finger like an operator keying in telegraphy. Can you feel them too? Can you hear them? In the chirps and drones of machines in which we trust so much? We trust so much.
This is kind of like Where’s Waldo, but if Waldo had a death wish.
