I  would  have  let  this  place  go  by as a smudge of light brown were it not for the
burnt red hues of rock now glowing like mahogany beneath a pink and purple sky,
removing  me  from  all  notions of being in my country. Another planet, this land
does  not  seem  as  though  it  could  belong  to anyone—it is even more wide open
than  the  plains.  The lowering sun blazes orange streaks and black shadows down
across  gray  sandstone  mesas, accentuating each crevice and fold of their bulbous,
melted  forms.  Sage  brush  sags  in  the  fading  light. Distant  buttes meet the sky.
Utah—the  painting  goes  by  like  the  surface  of  Mars,   or  like  that  of  the  pure
West—desolate, beautiful, and alive.

then suddenly,
a stop sign

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