Canyon

by SANDY COOMER

First the trail and where we set
our feet on the iron-rich dirt, stepping
over the craggy tumbles. Whale Rock 
rises before us, smooth and white, 
a massive stone mammal swimming 
across the mesa. We drift in our separate 
thoughts, while prickly pear blooms 
yellow and pink between rock spires. 
Cerulean sky poses above the red rust 
and pale gray of sandstone, siltstone, 
shale—the sedimentary rock a layer cake 
of minerals. First the trail and then 
the scarps and mazes. We reach a ledge 
that has no answer. We look across the tucks 
of yucca and lupine, the landscape 
indiscernible one direction from another. 
We listen to ravens calling down 
the thermals. There are dozens of ghost 
trails in the eroded canyon. The cliffs 
shine pink, crimson, chocolate, carved
by the Colorado and the Green. What
have we allowed to shape us, stranded
among the saltbrush and beardtongue? 
Our eyes meet like wistful strangers. 
The real trail is somewhere behind us.
The only way forward is back.