Stand upon thee o great Butte!

This land I see is a mixture of hills with painted strokes upon their flanks and ark pine trees dotting the palate

The only thing above you are clouds who even they and their shadows are small enough to be seen

Their shadows creep along the landscape like an amorphous amoeba, covering everything in its path

I shout, but no one can hear as the wind overbears my voice and drown it in the hillside

Below me is a hidden trove of fossils who lurk in anticipation to be discovered

They do not mind me walking on them as rock and rock and rock has already smothered them

The grass is sparse but the stones are free from all trampling temptation

Burnt lichen cover them in hopes of a passing rain cloud

I am only me up here-the deer just leave prints, the ants do not march, the birds do not fly, and the rabbits just hide from their blazing oppressor

Still, I am just me up here, sitting and thinking, thinking.

How on Earth do I get down?