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Slot Canyon

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Silken sand sifts and eddies in small circles, teased into movement by a buttermilk breeze that trickles down croissant walls.
The air looks like amber tea.
A soft whisper from the walls and a cat’s-tongue touch on my hand tells me my fingers are brushing the rock’s scarred face.
The brief drizzle of sun lets up and clouds move in.
Creamy twists in the dark flecked stone remind me of a cinnamon roll.
Light flickers like a candle as the sun falls in, smashing on the floor to splash on the walls of Slot Canyon once more, soaking me in warmth.





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