From Muley Point
From where i’m perched it’s hard to tell
what is peak and what is valley.
The sun washes out contrast
and the shadows are deceiving
so as the wrinkled rock folds into itself
my eyes can’t find a line to trace.
Neither can they land on a colour.
As the mesas spill down the canyon walls
the roasted orange rock blends
with cool greens
and an inexplicable purple
which I will only recognize as desert wildflowers
on the drive back down.
The tricky spirals
of unruly ridges and colours are dizzying
so I look towards the horizon
and Monument Valley standing strong against an undeniable blue.
I can feel my own feet on the rock again.
But for all there is for my eyes
my ears reach out towards nothing.
Here, I’m above the wind and enveloped by infinite quiet
until they catch something sharp and strange in the silence.
I can’t place it, but then a crow flies just above me
beating its wings once more.
I didn’t know feathers make that sound
when they slice through the air.
The crow lands not far from me
but closer to the edge than my wingless body will dare.
I try to match its stillness
until I can feel the Earth breathing
and I wish I could stay for a million years
to watch the long inhale.