(Travelling through the mountains along Interstate 70.)
The wide. wingspread fall
of a raven
shadows the canyon.
A dark lament
cast from its stone ribcage
to seek prey.
The song must be old
and mysterious. A legend
that saddens yet satisfies
this ancient void.
Awe has sunk enough silence
into these tectonic bones. Poetry
hungers to breathe, bewitch;
and its voice must sing,
sing of someone, half human, half divine
who gave this deep place
a spirit, an echo. And maybe,
it was a woman
waiting, threading her needle
with patience and long
water,
a river --The Colorado
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