Here, in the depths of the canyon, time stands still. The cliffs, ancient and unyielding, have witnessed countless journeys, each one carved into the river’s silent memory. The traveler drifts forward, unhurried. This is not just a passage, but a conversation between self and nature, a moment of quiet communion with a world that speaks in light and shadow.
He pauses, watching the birds spiral high above, their dark shapes fleeting against the sky. Do they follow unseen currents, or do they simply trust the air to carry them? The traveler wonders if the river, too, has a will of its own; if it is leading him somewhere, or if he should simply surrender to its flow.
The cliffs rise, their surfaces worn by time, their crevices sheltering moss and vines that cling with quiet persistence. The traveler listens with presence. He absorbs the slow patience of stone, the ceaseless whisper of water, the effortless grace of the birds who know no boundaries.
For now, only the rhythm of the river matters: the hush of wind through the trees, the infinite sky glimpsed in the light between the mountains. In this space, the traveler does not feel small. He feels part of it all.