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Poetry

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 browns

even black

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.