Red rock buttes rise from the parched landscape, dotted with desert
junipers and naked bushes. Stacks of small red stones echo
walls that rise in crimson suddenness between arid, windy flats.
This is Navajo land, with no fences. These massive rocks that rise
like statues carved by wind and light, belong to them, and seem to bear
a message, a code that speaks to them. I hear it in the chant of our
Navajo driver who names each rock formation. The light balances;
there is no randomness in the soft landscape and massive
red rocks. The Navajo understand.