By Andrew R. Duckworth
When the rays bend through the green, I’m reminded of the clear skies on earlier days of younger years when life wasn’t complicated with mindlessness, when I would stand at the edge of the canyon and not be reminded of the gravity of such a place. Naivety wasn’t so bad, looking out at the orange and brown glow under the sun, not knowing its history, not knowing that the blood of ancestors of this land and lost hoof prints were buried beneath my feet, the neighs lost to the wind and the cries of the cornered relegated to history texts. I think of these things because they are important to remember, even for someone who does not have a drop of native blood within him. It is important to remember what was lost and listen closely to the sound of the wind, look closely at the shape of the earth, look closely at the gentle stream running through, and be reminded that not all that is seen is what it is, that not all that is seen is how it was, that not all that is seen can be expressed in words so shallow that they can be written down and passed on. Some things must be felt, like the gentle grazing of a passing breeze that reminds one of the smallness of oneself, like the feeling that strikes the heart when you look across the chasm and see the vastness, like when you know the history of this place and think about the time that has passed and think about the ways such time has illuminated it.
