Woman seen from behind in tree pose on a canyon ledge, with tattoos on her upper arms and left forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woman in tree pose above a canyon

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman seen from behind balances on one leg in tree pose on a rocky canyon ledge, with her hands pressed together at her chest. She wears black leggings and a black sports bra, and tattoos are visible on both upper arms and the left forearm, though they are small and hard to make out at this size. Layered red and cream rock walls and a green valley fill the background beneath a blue sky with clouds.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ledge was warm through my boot soles, and Haskett wanted the strata counted before the light went flat. I stood on one leg with the field book braced against my knee, because the other foot had gone numb on the rock and I had decided not to admit it. Below us the canyon wall stepped down in bands, cream, then rust, then cream again, each one a different decade of somebody else's weather.

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"Fourteen," I said. "Fifteen, if you count the thin grey line under the rust."

"Count what you can see, Miss Teague, not what you hope to find." He squinted through the theodolite and wrote something in his own book, pleased with himself the way he always was when a measurement came out smaller than he expected.

A gust came up the valley and lifted the page I had just turned. My pencil went with it, over the edge, turning end over end past the cream bands until the green of the river bottom took it without a sound. I watched it go. Haskett said he would have to put the loss on the expedition accounts, and I said he could put it wherever the stone put things, and he laughed so hard he had to sit down on the warm rock.

I wrote fifteen in the book that evening, in ink, and beside it, very small: one pencil, returned to the valley. The river had carried worse down that canyon for ten thousand years, and it would not mind one more line added to the record.

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