In the canyon, sitting on the
desert ground by clear and rushing waters of a crystal stream that flows from
mountains far beyond the high surrounding mesa, I look at Anasazi ruins built
within a crack between the sun and moon.
A thousand years ago, people
occupied this space and made their time like pottery and sacred images of
Kokopelli breathing infinite designs of lightning on these sandstone walls
created by a long-forgotten sea.
The water starts to talk to me. It
is speaking in a language that I used to speak before this world was planted in
a fertile consciousness. I could say it's timeless but it's more like time
itself. It's as if the Big Bang is right now.
Those ancient Pueblo people walk
past me. Dinosaurs are dying out. Purple darkness like the one original sea
distills each and every drop of water in my blood. I drink its whirlwind we
call being until it covers me in silence.
When the tour bus leaves, I climb
aboard, unable to explain to her the scene I've seen, the sea I am. Instead, I
speak of ruins in the stream. My lunch was good. I took a picture of my hiking
boots. Two ravens soar above me in these thermal waves of turquoise sky.
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