Every crevice of this canyon is a ruin of a life once lived. Lives lived in sacred agreements to this land and all that tread across it. The visible ruins of those people are merely a shell of their being, as is a body a shell to one’s person. What is held sacred is not only marked on the skin of the land, but is the breath of life that drives the cottonwood to sprout and the ever-transient soul of a desert stream. The ones who once dwelled in the cradled arms of sandstone walls knew that force as the makings of their being. It is all the living and the dying that was and will be.