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Lake Powell

Don Hamilton

Dinosaur tracks in the sandstone of the eternal canyons of time.

A rhyme-less ode to Powell

Two hundred million years ago I slept within the boundary of two hundred million millenniums,

 64 million millenniums gone. I could see and feel the beauty of half of all the life on this planet.

I can see a millennium within a few millimeters of the sandstone record, what transpired those eons ago is as unknown to me as the end of the universe but some living thing experienced it as sure as I experience today now. That moment of connection like a spark of static from a door feels shocking yet exhilarating; I can feel their moment across the time space between us. I don’t know what it thought or how but we looked for a moment across that conduit into each others eyes.

Lying on my back I can see the stars that have shined light on a quarter million generations of my spices. Yet the walls of my canyon to the stars vigil were by comparison as the ages of a redwood tree to a butterfly and the stars have witnessed a near infinity of time to the ages of the canyon. These stars are moving as slowly as glass moves in windows pressed relentlessly gravitationally to become thicker at the bottom. Glass is a liquid but in a thousand years the movement is almost undetectable. Yet to the creator of the galaxy glass sinks in an instant and the stars spin around like a child’s top wound up by god himself.

My first wife is gone, mother, father, grand father grand mother and a thousand generations before; they stop at me an end point in a universe remembered by those that have passed but forgotten by the same now. Their complex robust loving record of their fight for life for their spawn is there yet as cryptic as the grains of sand compressed into stone, hiding but hinting at complex bygone eras.

Every night we pass into the darkness of eternity only to be reborn into another day until like my father and his before him the night does not relent and the universe moves on, only later by small hints of an existence to be appreciated 30 million generations later by some new life form pondering what it was you thought while it holds some distant fragment of your life.

 

The universe will come and go so quickly that the last evidence of existence will occupy the briefest moment of thought of what was as it exists in the canyon wall for the moment. I look and sense it’s existence-all that time is gone and compressed into my briefest of thought.

 

With these words I admit and make it so that it lives again only to be gone when I go. If these thoughts I penned today were to last a thousand years they would give no more note or life then the glimpse of the first millionth of the moment of the spontaneous generation of this universe popping in and out of it’s existence in a cleansing cycle over and over in an uncountable number of times each completely different down to it laws of physics yet life repeatedly becoming self-aware looking to the past into the eyes of it ancestors for how and why.

 

Barb at picnic spot

Stopping to cool off on a long jet ski trip.

View of the boat from high above on the sandstone hills made from the petrified sandy bottom of a 200 million year old ocean.

from above
moon over mound

Moon over stony hill several hundred feet above out camp.

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In the picture above you can see a houseboat and speed boat on the left of the far side of the water. The boat is 50 feet long and probably 18 ft. wide.

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View of lounge chairs on deck below helicopter deck.

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Don Hamilton

Don Hamilton

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