In the desert you can see all the stories.
There are no trees or buildings obscuring the echoes of her geological songs.
Echoes that skip along the shallow silty rivers and bleach great boulders under the bright and blatant honesty of the sun.
She knows the true meaning of time, the desert.
She is time. In sculpted form.
She is molded, shaped, carved, blasted, burnt, blown, thrown, fired, tired and reborn again every second, minute, day, season, year, forever.
She is eternal art. Exponentially perfect.
She is the last of the virgin earth.
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
Give it a try.
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