The screaming crags of stone arch upwards under noonday sun. I wish I could buy this land, I think. It speaks to me. I don't know what it's saying, like stories upon stories upon jumbled stories. I'm sure I see Indian maidens passing under the shadows of shaking Aspen leaves. I saw some bones where a buffalo died. Someone told me that a dying buffalo screams so loudly you can hear it for hundreds of miles, but that seems like a tall tale to me. Sometimes I think of other tall tales my grandfather tells me about this land. I think of them all when I come camping alone up here. I shouldn't be alone. Grandfather reminds me of that at every opportunity. But I got my .30-.30 and my dog, so I'm not really alone.
Besides, only in the peace of my own mind can I hope to piece together the jumble. That's my plan anyway. Some people like old buildings because they think the walls can talk, tell stories of the past inhabitants. These slabs of somber malachite form walls of their own making, walls of strength that see far more than any old run-down house.
They've seen something. I know it. One day I'll figure it out, because even though they can't tell me what it is, they're screaming, screaming at me.
And I think, no story troubles mountains to cry across windbare flowering meadows into the endless azure sky unless it is one that needs telling.