A journal of narrative writing.
The Rocks We've Named

Because love runs north and south the ridge combs—after pocket or rooster, we're not sure—get each their own name. We have camped for days near Cock Rock, that spire rising still anchored to the western wall's sheer and perfect pitch. Up and down, the rock face so smooth we've searched for planer marks. For sanders or chisels lost by craftsmen in the pinion groves, maybe their water jugs initialed in Sharpie on faded strips of duct tape. Anything that'll tell of an architect. That says design, or because I said so. And so far, nothing. Just rocks we've named, a toilet tree. And the ridge reaching. It falls and sweeps toward the La Sals, sharp against a guileless sky, and gives more than comfort enough.