I tumble like a weed across The Painted Desert and come to a position of repose at sunset, on the cusp of the Grand Canyon. The incredible, heart-stopping view is gliding in and out of isolated snow storms and the golden tusks of sundowning seem to pierce the cold with molten warmth. Every color in the rock is rippling fire under the strokes of sun slant. I stand with my toes curled around the rim of the magnificent abyss and dare the wind to set me spinning, like a seed, into the great snaking green that is slowly and meticulously chewing the canyon deeper as the years drift by. I am gladly alone, again, for a miraculous display, for another promise fulfilled. I stay there. On the edge. As long as I can bear it. The wind is bitter. I am hungry. My fingers numb. And still I stay. I want the final strains of daylight to resonate in my heart and mind (like a horsehair bow drawn eternal and slow across a violin string) as long as possible, past the darkness of night and into a great beyond.
