The Grand Canyon 

It's a terrarium of secrets, 
holding eons as heirlooms. 
To the high flying condor, 
it is a scar along the earth's crust,
until she tilts her body,
she cuts through the air,
controlling her fall,
aware of her destination. 

Embracing the wound,
she dives closer, past
walls of fossilized shells
to the river below.
Through the ruddy stratum of time
she finds the water and rests 
on the curled arm of a juniper tree.

Leaning against the tree's base,
a man wipes sweat from his brow. 
Holding his camera to the perched bird,
he gifts her immortality—
a snapshot, a photograph—
while feeling proud,
for he has captured something rare. 

A grey mule is waiting.
The man ties his gear onto its saddle, 
and rides back up the trail. 
But he continues to turn, admiring the bird,
until she becomes indistinguishable 
from the constellations of juniper foliage. 

Reaching flat land, he gazes 
over the verge. Southward 
the abyss appears to widen,
as the river stretches like the clear pathway to eternity. 
Thousands of ripples emerge and fall, 
grasping sunlight like children.
Exhaling, he contemplates and releases
the words, “There are stars in this river.” 


Pacific 

Come, lay your bones 
down on the shore.
How many questions don’t matter anymore 
out here within this wild eternal? 

Coastal trees house lost light    
as their leaves rattle like caricatures of angel wings.
We are ancient as their whispers, 
here, away from mundane proportions.

Nobody pities that the Pacific
will never know its name—
it is recognized as a joy 
to avoid self-minimization.

The water stretches effortlessly
as open blue, anticipating 
nothing, comfortable 
with its rhythms 
of ecstasy and solemnity. 

Breaking waves ignite and bow 
like bending, blown glass,
to then collapse at our feet
and retreat into boundlessness.