They Multiply and Divide. I map them out as I see them, Write them in my mind; the phylogenetic tree, the fungal veins, the billowing Iron hills. All a pattern, a system, a universal code. Perhaps if I was a Pilot, I could see the whole thing swirling in on itself. River's carve out the trapezoidal mounds at Gunnison. Plateaus of lichen covered rocks top each one like a tooth just emerging from the gum. They are hard lime colored, strewn out Silent, dividing into smaller Bricks. Everything is compact and preserving dimensions, even by the Inch. The hills only Whisper their Rhymes to onlookers through water once flowed and countless quartz cascaded down the slopes. Our only proper Reply to it is marvel at the lines we read between each Fine sketch the hills have carved for no one. It's a repetitive story, but an engaging one, like the repetition of a song. Unlike a song however, this phenomena expands. Nothing is official. No Height, altitude, Grade, or name can be Given to the hills. They are existence itself. They are a complex pattern growing Bigger and smaller to the whims of the River. Each mound branches into smaller mounds which branch to smaller mound sections. The hill is a reptilian skin carved by the rain. So is the lichen. Miniscule green branches fanning out to their lichen twigs on the rocks. They are a microscopic tree within another within another. That last another is the river, a watershed creating a branched network of hills, everything a pattern growing out and folding in. Nothing but a repetitive Safety of design. Nothing but pattern and rhythm. Nothing but Fractals.