East of here, in the dry hills of Oregon near John Day, you can see fifteen million years of geologic newsreel highlights lying around on the red and white pebbled ground. The bones of saber tooth tigers, buffalo-sized pigs and massive alligators lie buried quietly in sands once shaded by palm and banana trees. It is as solemn and peaceful today as it must have been noisy and ominous then. An Amazon where no man roamed, it disappeared as completely as if we were there to cut it down.
This older inflorescence that lead to our own mad blooming reminds me that our cars, our own bones, our buildings and box cars full of our garbage will someday form the Holocene sediments — heavy with with our own history and faint imaginings, spread in uneven layers over the beds of our ancestors, we will lie down and wait our turn, as patient as dead tigers, for reverent diggers and dreamers to come along and resurrect us in all our own wild and primitive glory.