My color brick is found in the red clay of Sedona, the walls of the Grand Canyon, the descending cliffs of Vermillion and Canyon de Chelly.
Brick hides underground in mines, inside the body.
The sound of brick is like a rough-edged saw working through crumbling clay.
The orangy crazy redness feels rough as it turns into different sunset shades on the Superstition mountain.
The job of the brick-colored Red Mountain is to color shift for drivers as they head east on the 202 just before dusk.
The brick-colored petrified wood sticks out in our yard, a remnant of nature stolen long ago from its home in the national park.
Brick wants to be restored to its natural place in the world of sediment laid down by the rivers and seas.
Sweet is the taste of brick as it melts in watery droplets after a rain.
Close up, brick smells as if it was freshly placed there over the centuries. The scent of smoky dust stays with me as I walk forward.
Speak up and sit beside me, bricks says.
Touch me and I will glow.
The secret of the color brick is that I am fragile and also appear strong.