On this sobering morning, I am at a loss for words. Blanketed by the foreseen fate of our ailing nation. Watching the development off in the distance like a storm on the western plains. The beautiful chaos dancing between the ancient formations of the land. Knowing, that from a distance I am safe. Able to stare into the eye of madness and project the strength of a thousand men. Though, once it advances, I know I am dead.
I believe the story, which is featured below and written by my brother Zach in 2007 holds true to our current situation. A metaphoric illustration of America from its creation to present day. I thought I'd share it with you.
Wind swept high over the rim of the North Park depression, sending snow, ice, and debris from seasons past into the thin morning air - seen from below, a crystalline trail of tobacco smoke betraying the den of some great reclining mountain dweller. The horse's breath drifted thick, semi-opaque, white in the first rays of sunlight, mimicking the path of the eastbound airstream. Sounds of the waking forest came omnidirectional: the metallic crunch of twice-frozen snow, lodgepole pines creaking in the breeze, the hollow clatter of two trunks contacting in their rebound. His hands, arthritic and cracked dry, shook slightly in the cold as he reached for the sorrel's reigns. He placed his boot in the stirrup, and heaved himself over into the saddle. The sorrel swayed slightly adjusting to its new weight, taking one step forward and to the side, then settling back onto three legs, the right front shoe raised delicately with the leg bent into a forward facing V, the head tilted down and quietly chomping the bit as some obeisant runner presenting for assignment to faraway lands.
The sun through the pines wove a laticework of stark light and shadow on the cold ground, a vermiculate and ever shifting tapestry - now brighter, now darker - textured as tufted fur by the thick bed of dried, brittle needles from summer upon summer precedent.
He flicked the reigns forward, administering a light prodding kick to the sorrel's flanks with the heels of his dusty boots. They moved forward as one on a downhill slope, the sun at their backs through the trees. Seen from below, the just-breaking orb of sun blocked all detail of them save the diffraction halo bursting from their edge - a holy centaur blinding in illumination.
He kicked again, increasing their speed, the air moving over his face now numbing his lips. The thin line of grey granite stretched across the horizon, approaching, becoming wider with each lope, more defined. The cracks and color variations of the rock came into focus in reckless contrast to the cold blue skyline resting upon it - hard, textured organic earth giving way evanescently, but indisputably, to azure infinity. The trees receded on both sides a short distance from the edge, resembling the curtain frame of an old movie theater, its massive screen blue and featureless - depth without definition, two dimensional or three.
The centaur tested that definition, that cold blue space/plane, the horse's eyes widening with fright, unable to divert - its will not its own, but reposed rather in the pilot above - the man's eyes narrow with purpose. Seen from below, they broke the barrier: appearing first head, then body, then wind-flapping tail. Born from the nothingness of granite to the being of sky. For a brief time, this foetal beast was a bird.