Saturday, November 5, 2011


When we got there
my 1986 Toyota Camry shook,
smiled, breathed the altitude in
condensation pumping
from proud mechanical lungs.

We reflected on sleep deprived
conversations under full moon
non-sense belly laughs
down winding roads
through promised lands.

Eight thousand feet,
dark morning still cold
in late summer we waited
watched for the dawn.
The sky changed its mind
and we scurried down to the lip.

The horizon was a palette
orange and pink bleeding
into a pale off white
leaning towards light
blue. Beams of sun
crept down the rust-colored cliffs.

We looked up and down
the Grand Canyon was not
a photograph. Pebbles nuzzeled
between our toes, potential death
falls stirred dormant fears
in our guts. We tried to open
our eyes bigger than they could,
wished they were garage doors.

We considered the morning
carefully, parsed
the serenity, tried hard
to locate a word or sentence.

We agreed
it was big, but
somehow it wasn’t
what we expected.

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