Whitestone Hoodoos

Whitestone Hoodoos Near where I live, just up the hill above the airport, is a place of mystery and wonder, a place wizards might once have dwelled, or young warriors wandered in search of vision. It’s a thicket of chalky hoodoos, sitting now like a forest of plump petrified dwarfs made of meringue sculpted by uncountable drops of rain and whatever it is you might call a single unit of wind. It’s enchanting for sure, but largely ignored by the sensible folk. It’s a place of unclimbable slippery slabs and crumbly sliding slopes, of snakes with rattles and succulents with thorns. I’m sure to some eyes it’s just a barren hill, and to others an inspiring view that’s always just out the window, to some a marvelous result of random tectonic drifts and to a few at least, a glimpse into the past when wizards and warriors met under the shadow of watchful dwarves and ate the bitter root. (from my third book, SUN MADE FLESH AND FIBER, 2019)