By Gary Nelson | The Arizona Republic
The wheels of time grind slowly at Buckhorn Baths.
Each hour, a few more grains of dust settle on the yellowing guest books.
Each day, a little more sunlight filters through the cracks that slowly grow in ceilings, walls and silent hallways.
Each month, our collective memory of what this place was grows a bit more dim.
Time is at work despite what the clock in the bathhouse seems to say, the clock now frozen straight up at noon — or is it midnight? — and 21 seconds.
Time may be what Buckhorn has the most of — and the least of.
