The length of steel finds the weakness, the space, I apply the pressure and suddenly gravity is served. So light as the air surrounds it, a granite block the size of the couch I am now sitting on finds it's arc and dances into it's fate of rocketing debris, a display befitting this 4th of July weekend. As the talus grows by it's measure, the void that is left by the former occupant is a shelf-sized ledge caked in gravel, a small berm of soil at it's back. A few passes with the bristles of the broom and brush, and the granite is pristine, now exposed to the sun, the skin, the sweat and the rubber for seasons to come. At it's juncture with the wall, a deep fissure is revealed, a finger's width in size and running towards the overhang above. It will soon accept soft digits and hardened cams, allowing this portion of the rock dance to continue.
I swing out onto the sun-grazed wall, tools jangling, the realm of the river, the silvered snag, the willow and the moose hundreds of feet below me, threading for miles in each direction. The destructive power of fire created the landscape I behold around me; the creative power of gravity and dreams creates a new landscape above me, running in converging, golden, beckoning lines to meet the cloud-garnished azure of the sky.