In those sleeping hills time does not exist. When I’m in isolation, I’m alone within the corners of God’s imagination. Below the shifting sand, I ponder previous worlds wherein mankind went absolutely crazy, and vanished. I think of the wide gaping mouth of the Grand Canyon in Arizona and the many quiet places still remaining in this world of bus and computer. But man is becoming evermore crazy. A mystery is drawing nearer, but remains patient. A thunderstorm brings the roaring rain upon housetops. Thunder reverberates through ancient canyons. Unknown rivers flow down unknown channels. This is the constant vision in my heart. The purpose of life is to let the deep wind sing in the soul and for the land to sing. When the world goes into aweful insanity, may the canyon country preserve me.
As crimson rain falls upon glowing wastelands every monsoon night of August, the after vision of the dusk grows evermore mystical. Painted pictures dance across the rocks beneath the stars. The dead coyote speaks against the hunter. The Bristlecone survives because it depends on the wild desert wind, the bone dry rockface in which it stands, and the stone cold elements which give it splendor. Humans have become to dependant on their inventions, but the rug is being pulled. The canyons are waking up with their gazing shadows.