The Roraima bush toad hops across the wet sandstone.

The Heliamphora pitchers gleam with rain and nectar.

The two-billion-year-old sandstone persists, grain by grain being removed by erosion, slowly changing form while remaining unmistakably what it is.

The lost world is not lost.

It is right there, in the clouds, above the Gran Sabana, at the corner of three countries, ancient beyond ordinary comprehension and alive in ways that the ancient age makes possible.

Still becoming what it will be next.