Some moments cry out for a drum roll.
I’m standing at the edge of the canyon,
looking down, and it’s so silent,
I can hear the “whoop” of the buzzard’s wing
like a flat tire in the sky.
I’m too awed even to call you over.
“Come see this,” is as dry on my tongue
as the rocky ground beneath.
You’re still fiddling with something or other.
I’m always telling you how you’ll miss
out on the shooting-star, the sperm whale-breaching,
but you never do,
You amble over eventually and hover,
as I do, over this giant crack in the world.
There’s nothing to say
so nothing is said.
I don’t even bother to take your hand.
The scenery has a mighty grip
on all my body parts.
Some, moments require nothing more
than a tin whistle solo,
like when we retreat from the crevasse,
amble back down the trail
toward the parking lot.
We don’t speak and the buzzard’s
too busy riding thermals
but the soft and unfussy melody
of wonderment deflating
would be something
There’s no conversation until we’re
in the car, on the highway,
and then it’s just, “How far
did you say it was to the next motel?”
Some moments want nothing more
than simple answers to simple questions.
But before I get to say “ten miles”
the sun begins setting,
gorgeous colors on the distant mountains…
By: John Grey
Submitted on 11/15/12