In the clean, crisp, blue hued air of early morning what I would do is strip you and frame you with this backdrop making you bare and timeless like the panorama unfolding before us and urge you to your hands and knees so you could have your whole being connected to the earth, the red fine dust like talc under your palms and nails that has the perfume of dirt baked into just one of the dozens of shades of red out here, always the one I am looking at my favorite until I see another. Red like blood, life red, crawling to the edge, inching to savor the approach, crumbly chipped dusty dirt reminding you of the array of textures, the smooth rounded ones and the jagged cuts and diggings and points to the stars of mountain tops, cuts and a gorging of the land that will resist and outlive everything from the hand of man. What spreads grandly before us un man enhanced, not one visible sign of anything other than what nature has wrought, not one. It has to be that way when I drop behind you and nudge you forward with my hips and I only regret that I can't see your eyes widen with fear and love at the edge of the world, this abyss of eons and forever hundreds of miles in front of us. When I join us the only sounds are the breeze and our collective breath, each thrust to your core taking us closer, accepting too close as a dangerous need with my hands and arms wrapped around your waist so I can suspend your head and shoulders, fingers gripping heavens edge, out there, in space but letting go when I release in you so that you understand why they call it the little death before I pull you back and we red dirt wallow and spill.
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