False shadow of dead piñons
Out on the mesa again, finally.
The annual false spring had sprung: hardly any wind, clear skies, and 65 degrees. On the sheltered side of the slopes, it felt like 80 at least, and who could resist? I took my camera and a water bottle and headed up the hill.
This was one of those walks, so I only went a little way on what passes for a road before cutting off to the southeast and making my way cross-country. Directed solely by intuition and the lay of the land, almost every step was right. Whenever I felt a disturbance, I retraced that bit of the route and took a different turn. In this part of the world, you need to watch the ground. That alone will make you slow down and pay attention, and when you see what’s down there…
Everywhere I went, the rocks were astounding: quartz, flint, mica, and wildly multi-colored igneous rocks of every description lay in all directions, some cracked freshly open by freezing. This is what you get from millions of years of exploding volcanoes. I ended up on my hands and knees taking dozens of photos (visit this FotoFeed after I update and work your way back). But that wasn’t the only good part.
Poetry of matter
I spied a ridge that might have been a ceremonial spot and headed for it. It isn’t hard to get a feel for these things if you kind of blur your eyes, ignore the vegetation, and feel where someone might have walked a thousand years ago over the same terrain. Sure enough, when I got up there, the ground was littered with potsherds. I’d never seen so many in one place before. As is my custom now, I leave most such things where they are.
Each broken pot is a religious sacrifice.
Can you imagine all the prayers?
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