It’s raining. It’s dribbling, dripping, pinging, collecting, carving, eroding, freshening, quieting, soaking, and scrambling. It tattoos itself onto the canyon walls and into the bedrock there, carving its initials into the saprolites and soils above. Soon there is blood: the blood of the land runs from these wounds and over them in a ruddy rogue that only gains in intensity as the rains prick harder and for a long time. Since when did you take blood thinners? Drop, drip: the tattoo artist is done; his work finished; the pelting, pricking pain, over. The blood flow slows to a muddied coagulation.
Waimea: red water (November 17, 2010)In by Fannie on November 26, 2010 at 6:58 pm