Eyes pinched tight, we span the narrow neck
A strand of sandstone stretched across the sky
Bighorn Mesa spreads out to the west
Beyond the reeling cliffs that fall away.
The dust of half a desert on the air
Turns noon to blurred pastel. The wind is raw
It bites through sweaters, follows us around
The corner of the alcove, meets us at the draw.
We walk on rims above the canyon trails
Where rock folds on itself and swallows dive
Searching secrets out of every twist,
In half a day we walk a half a mile.
Scarlet paintbrush bursts from scoured stone
A tadpole grows old in a perched pool
What fills us while the wind sings like a coyote:
Red rocks, blue sky, Green River.
Island in the Sky, Canyonlands National Park
Susan Marsh lives in Jackson, Wyoming. She has combined her interests in writing and natural history in a body of work that explores the relationship of humans to the wild. Her poems have appeared in Clerestory, Manzanita Review, Dark Matter, Silver Birch and other journals and anthologies. Her poetry chapbook This Earth Has Been Too Generous is forthcoming in fall 2022 from Finishing Line Press.
Featured image courtesy the poet.
