A trickle of time melts its way down a mountain of perhaps. Other trickles from others' potentials merge and mingle; become a stream which grows as it gathers. Soon, soon, time no longer is guided by stone but carves it, carves unwilling rock into fissures. Earth itself is rent by what might have been; time gathers the debris and carries it downstream, deep and slow and wide. The canyon it cut is deep and wide as well, and twists and turns with branches and dead ends. Our lives are but a shout into the void, echoes which carry and fade along canyon walls, unless and until an ear downstream might hear them. Perhaps they will; perhaps not. The river and canyon both are fickle; hold their secrets close. The only potential once here
is to shout until no voice is left.
Thanks to an old friend, Harry Weyer, who sent pictures of the Grand Canyon. His pictures took me with him.