To blink and be here
Atop this windswept
Petrified sundae
Of layered sandstone
Thousands of years
Before my bones
Had a chance
To be thrown
Covering hands in
Flower fashioned paint
Leaving prints
Patterns and silhouettes
No doubt
A message for the now
Or annual migration
With never a thought
That centuries hence
They might be found
Fading into stone scripture
A force fed
Through a paradigm
Of what were they
Trying to tell us
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