GASH of the painted country, the canyon that the river cut and the heat then colored. He appeareth as a deep winding wound of rose and gold and ash-white stone, red forest crowding both rims, with the great falls white at his head and the jade river working forever at his floor. His office is to display the inside of the mountain: what every hill conceals beneath its sod he wears openly, the cooked and painted flesh of the earth shown the way a book lies open. The Voice of the falls fills him brim to brim and has never once stopped speaking. The river painted nothing; it only cut, and the earth, embarrassed, was found already wearing colors underneath.
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