The Slow Volcano

 Earlier, I had found myself atop a rocky ledge that gradually dropped itself off, down into thick massive valleys of sage brush. My thoughts had traveled, and soon I was wondering how long Fort Rock had sat as an old volcano. Must've been a long time. I had felt positive that some indian long ago, had shared this same vantage point as I, perhaps even sharing the exact emotions.

Dad and his small cave.

It seems that everything slows in the desert. Time takes a step back. Progression naturally evolves at a much slower pace. The desert doesn't mind time, and if it did, there'd be none of it.

I found myself in awe, gazing up at the steep red, rust colored walls. One giant formidable rock, bringing on an eerie kind of silence, seeming to almost reach out and creep up on my skin. Such a quiet solitude fell all around, and for the time being I felt deaf, but the atmosphere showered smiles upon my heart.

Not a drop will touch the ocean.

Soon my gaze shifted to the valley much further below. Out there, sage spread in long drawn out miles, carpeting the desert floor. Out further, the colors changed, but then stayed the same. Out and forever across, the sage brought on a sweet fragrance, which traveled as far as the breeze.

Raven games.

The expanse.

 I know this view will be here tomorrow. Same goes with the other high plateaus, and rocky bluffs. If they had eyes, they would capture each dawn, with hues of orange waking the day, bringing coyotes into song and dance.