A new story from The Hero’s Journey for The Daily ZU – read the full story at www.thedailyzu.com. 

The canyon losing definition as the sun breaks toward the Uinkarets, a tented line of volcanos to the west.  Declivities dissolve into dusky and soft shapes.  Cavities fill, first with light, and then swell with darkness.  Bereft of the contours chiseled from the day’s youth, the sandstone at the very ledge of North Rim is buffed to pillows for my tired and boney ass. Flies buzz and land on the carcasses of stone, backlit like flakes of ash from the long dead volcanos spread in a chain up from the river farther west, from Vulcan’s Throne along the rim at Toroweap.  All the chasms settled with murky light, soft and windswept and amber.  The cliffs of the Inner Gorge, serrated teeth, mesh on either side of the wending river, chisel defiles no more as the embered light descends on them, oblique, gentle, yet smothering, all-consuming. A death each dusk. Pulling sharp shape from the stone until the Canyon, burned beyond recognition, collapses to dark ruins.  Exalted yet swept clean of contour by the soft, blinding embrace.  Azure shifts to indigo, heated in a crucible to the melt point of the bullion shafts that fan out from beneath the horizon at Mount Trumbull.

Given time, all things, even majesty, serene in death.  Struggle transmutes into relinquishment, a gentle yielding of stillness to stillness.  All the action played out, the taking of the life from the day a shortened passage of seasons.  In the union of day and night, the twilit bardo of dark rust bestows beauty, grants peace.