We wind our way through the ruins of Wupatki, naturally gathering in what once was the central communal space, sitting in intervals, degrees of a compass, in relative silence. A constant soft sound is that of pencil on paper, and the insect-like clicking of cameras. (Any other mechanical sounds have already begun to seem foreign.)
The viscera of the water and wind-worn stones draws me in, as do the details always - their textures highlighted by the suns angles, shadows accumulating in concavities. Such forms are hard evidence of elemental effects - time and weather’s persistence.