When granite and sandstone begin to blur and flow, the eye rests on cool white aspen. Strange, their seeming transparency. How as in a sudden flash one remembers a forgotten name, so the recollection. Aspen. With a breeze in them, their quiet rhythms, shimmering, quaking. Powder on the palm. Cool on the cheek. Such delicacy the brittle wood, limbs snapping at a grasp, whole trees tumbling in the winds. Sweet scent on a swollen afternoon. Autumn, leaves falling one upon another, gold rains upon a golden earth. How at evening when the forest darkens, aspen do not. And a white moon rises and silver stars point toward the mountain, darkness holds them so pale. They stand still, very still.
Driving and Drinking [North to Parowan Gap]
North to Parowan Gap Turn right up there and get off these pavements there aint no sense to holding up the traffic and we aint hurrying you just turn there and that dirt road goes out to the Gap where them Indins wrote on them rocks I remember the first time I ever got drunk. Me and my brother we was following this branch back home in Misippi when we seen a trail leading off and he knew but I didn't he's oldern I was and been down them trails so's we went down and found it any time you find a trail off a branch you follow it . . .