Wednesday, September 18, 2002

It's 9 in the morning and I'm wedged in a crevice, my feet braced on the wall in front of me, my watercolor pad close to my face. A fine salty dust is carried in with each rush of wind through the narrow drainage and begins to dull the colors of my paints and make my eyes water. Bits of hardened clay drop from above, one nestles in my watercolor box. I hope it's still there when I get back to Rhode Island to remind me of living for a month in the South Dakota badlands.