At the abandoned quarry in Cranberry Lake Preserve, tags, signs, and symbols mark a few boulders and sliced crags:
Approaching the submit, tag on stone, like ancient rock etchings.
A public art piece commenting on the wanderer’s one-eyed gaze at the picturesque? Or a boulder’s blink?
Black Star magic.
Does the cultural significance of graffiti change when the graffiti leaves its urban element? Do the markings become rune-like signs of nature’s spirit? What are the graffiti artist-in-nature’s intentions?
Atop these ephemeral markings — stars, vortexes, eyes, names — I stand as close to the sky as I can, at the rock’s edge, and hear the horizon hiss into flatness. With only light to receive, I have all that there is.