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