Craters of the Moon
To think of such a place of black cinders and sharp craggy rock, that for miles runs to the horizon like a river frozen by some dark magic.
The piercing sun baking that which is already fried. And yet a small purple flower rises on a thin tender stock into the fiery dried winds back dropped by searing black.
This, another sign of necessity and will. To the North the reminders of hope of cool and wet.