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Park 3

Geometric quilts of rock form the mountains. Oyster white is stitched in blocks; each block is stitched in rows. Blocks alternated, some placed horizontally and some vertically. The crones who stitched this blanket worked the fates. Vertical crones heaved the earth up and held it there with sinew and bone. The horizonal crones shoved it down under their massive plate only to have the others raise it up again. These wise and crazy women pushed and shoved to create this quilt piled high into the sky. The crones changed the color of their work. Black was threaded with gold. Red piled up hard by the white. Vermillion formed the vertical, all of it to wrap us in wonder.

It felt as if I cheated Zion. It had much to offer that we did not have time to see. Even though we took the park tram to the terminus and back, seeing, really seeing, any of these parks would take weeks if not years. It almost felt as if the choice were to go quickly or stay forever. I missed the time to find the little things. Mostly, I missed the time and space to simply experience.

Zion did not begrudge our short time. It gave us a parting gift, a herd of big horn sheep. The herd topped a rock abutting the road and stayed long enough for photos.



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