by Emily K. Bright
In Sedona, rust-red cliffs ridge sky, their faces
carved by river, 15 million years ago. My father and I
climbed their mesas, rested on their flat tops
at what used to be land-level. We swept our hands
across imprints left by wind and rain on solid rock.
How can I not be awed?
My father taught me rock formations. Those cliffs
once were dunes, once were sand ground down
from mountains. From him, I learned to reconstruct:
first glacier, then the sea. We are ever-changing. We are
carved from those before us. Deep beyond our hearing,
the rocks sing their tectonic praise.
Brins Mesa, Sedona, Arizona
Emily K. Bright is a freelance writer and radio producer in the Twin Cities. An MFA grad from the University of Minnesota, she is the author of the poetry chapbook Glances Back. Her individual poems have appeared America, Other Voices International, The Pedestal Magazine, among numerous others. Find her at www.emilykbright.com.
Featured image courtesy U.S. Forest Service, Coconino National Forest.