With what you don't know about me, I could just about fill the Grand Canyon.

All of life’s riddles are answered in the movies.

In golf, 'close' is like the north and south rim of the Grand Canyon.

I am Hualapai. We are located in Northern Arizona, at the Grand Canyon. We own the Skywalk area.

Armies of marching men told of that blight of nations old or young—war. These, and birds unnamable, and beasts unclassable, with dots and marks and hieroglyphics, recorded the history of a bygone people. Symbols they were of an era that had gone into the dim past, leaving only these marks, {Symbols recording the history of a bygone people.} forever unintelligible; yet while they stood, century after century, ineffaceable, reminders of the glory, the mystery, the sadness of life.

It seemed so improbable. But so did everything else that I really paid attention to.

There will never be a photograph of the Grand Canyon that can adequately describe its depth, breadth, and true beauty.

I pace the shallow sea, walking the time between, reflecting on the type of fossil I’d like to be. I guess I’d like my bones to be replaced by some vivid chert, a red ulna or radius, or maybe preserved as the track of some lug-soled creature locked in the sandstone- how did it walk, what did it eat, and did it love sunshine?

Rim are there horizonswhere there is no horizontalwhere mountains fold space,hold distance up?embedded in a canyonour heads tilt instinctively.here earth meets sky,we can reach it; the rimdoes not shimmer and recede. we lean into diagonal lives,relieved of right angleseyes, arms, hearts drawnupward, vectored to ridgelineskeenly aware of the slantof time, its shape and substance;it is a wedge; it movesalong ray-stroked slopes;we pass into it, are passed over.

I sit watching until dusk, hypnotized. I think of the sea as continually sloshing back and forth, repetitive, but my psyche goes with the river- always loping downhill, purposeful, listening only to gravity.