They thump up the wooden benches.
Thunk clunk clunk.
Exercisers with their backs to the blue-green plains.
Jonathan Sky stood, looking out. In the distance Denver opened up on the high blue and green scar of rock.
—What’re ya thinking about?
—The world, said Jonathan Sky pensively.
—The way in which the land seems to stretch not just to the horizon but to the very limits of one’s imagination. … The horizon is contiguous with the borders of the imagination. What is beyond it is beyond me; what I cannot think while contemplating it I not yet am.
—Makes sense, said Harold Sky.
The climbers paced up the red stones.
Jonathan Sky’s uncle pointed a finger at one, a rock wall.
—That one’s called Steamboat.
—It does look like it’s on its way down, said Jonathan Sky.
—Does anyone ever try to climb the rocks… Free seating?
—No, no, way too sheer. As a matter of fact every Phish concert someone tries to climb and they all get arrested.
Harold Sky scoffed.
—Phish fans. They think every show is an excuse to smoke a lot of pot and act like morons.
Jonathan and Harold walked a few more steps up. The music of a bongo drum sounded from below on stage, reverberating off of the rock walls.
Dong da dong doa doong da doong.
—I like the way the notes fall like prehistoric dinosaur bones, said Jonathan Sky.
Doong da doong da doong.
—Makes one feel as if one lives in a spirit world, he said.
They began to exit the ampitheatre. A child, pointing a camera at his brother scrambling atop a rock, caught Jonathan’s eye passing.
—Phish fans, said Jonathan Sky suddenly laughing, fucking scumbags.
He winced when the word was out of him. Somehow it had slipped out of his mouth into the world. The rocks of the archway seemed to loath him. Jonathan Sky kept his mouth shut the rest of the way down. At the base of the rock a road went further into the canyon…
Why did I say that?