Cunning Canyon

with a whir and a bounce

I drop into the canyon;

with coyote cunning

Sinawava waits for me.

a warm morning sun

comforts the adrenalin

gnawing inside my veins 

sounds of birds and distant voices

echo against twisted labyrinth walls,

clear waters tiptoe

with sparkling twinkles

through shallow streams below;

all the while

sweet mountain air absorbs my being

without warning

an impetuous sky wells up,

coal-colored clouds

swirl and whirl

barking with abrupt crescendo,

as the simple patter of droplets

turn to steamy showers,

walls of rock begin to weep 

with dead branches and

loose rock,

grumbling as they jettison down.

with sharpened senses,

seeking higher ground,

hands grope for

holds in a changing wall

as feet  stumble like

an awkward teenager,

mind trying to catch up to body.

a bluster of upstream water

collides into a now roiling stream

rushing with a bellow

unforgiving,

leaving sloppy sludge 

in its wake.

the fleeting chaos

passes

scurrying squirrels,

and twittering birds

reappear, 

luring me back . . .

The Temple of Sinawava

awaits.

anke hodenpijl

October 19, 2012