Thompson Springs, Utah
Zach Yanowitz
the cliffs to the north of the town are plastered with anazazi pictographs. rust-red in their consanguine vagueness, their lack of definition a credit to the deft hands that daubed them on the canyon walls, fingers sand-caked and sun-baked. there used to be a sawmill and a railroad station where they’d herd wild-eyed cattle to the train cars, pack them in trembling and dumb, their hides worn gray by dirt and desperation. when they built the highway three miles south the town bled dry as an open vein. tendrils seeping through the earth, evaporated hissing like so many ragged snakes, their knots a static myth. now doors swing loose on tarnished hinges to slam against their splintered frames in scorching wind, the corrugated shells of homes lacunas to the sky, burst through with dust-kissed phantoms. i’ll take these pictures to remember: the silence, the light, your name.
Spring 2011 23