5.17

Lost pinnacle of common man, the stone bones creep from the earth as a failing reminder of more languorous days.

I turn and run at reminders that my self marches on apace, a short flicker of power to the brief bulb of my life, blinking on and failing again in the selfsame moment, filling the room with a transitory amber before again fading to black. This edifice serves as a stark contrast to a personal time-locked insignificance. Yet--when I look at the old maps, this slow-motion excavation seems stately slow as a landslide--this rejoinder of the pioneers didn't exist with those men. The map even of 1870 contains no such stricture of river, no such violence of relief as this heavenward thrust of stone. Maybe the good old days were made (produced created) for me.
Someday, this geologic invitation to introspection will be worn down to nothing, and someday even memory will not suffice to complete its height. On that day, may the children of tomorrow look back and fear my days as good, and turn from the reminder that all life seems shorter when viewed from behind.