It's always too late.

Segments of a battered American landscape.  Wyoming.

I’d been driving along the park roads of Yellowstone late into the afternoon.  The sun was beginning to settle down over the horizon. A cloud came between the land and the sun, casting gargantuan shadows across the landscape. I got out of the car.  I stood at the edge of the wide Yellowstone lake, my sneakers nestled into the long wet grass, and stood motionless as the park blinked in silence.