Halfway Up the Canyon (October 1977)

The stranger and I sit in haunting stillness.
We are weary and alert here, held within
the immense womb of the Grand Canyon.


Today we hiked halfway up from the river at
its bottom where I’d camped after a long day
of hot steep descent on the South Kaibab trail.


Now, as the vastness beneath begins to transform
in the purplish inky light of deepening dusk,
an immense explosion bursts through this quiet


from high above us and echoes through miles
of empty space to pierce the early evening.


Two male bighorn sheep face to face on the narrow
cliff crash their essential weapons, curved horns
of thick animal bone like great warrior-gods


fighting for their lives and for a beguiling goddess
as she awaits the bloodied victor in a nearby cave.


Astonished and entranced we reverently welcome
this miracle of the wild, when suddenly a wind
crashes down these majestic cliffs onto our amazed


and weary bodies, blows off the stranger’s wide
brimmed hat, and sends it fast and far into the
darkening night towards the canyon’s endless


open arms where our unseen futures, hidden
in plain sight, silently await with wryly gracious
knowing smiles.