Uncommon View
Poem by Donna O’Connell
Over tequilas
a stranger confided about another,
dearer path to see The Canyon.
A locked gate, a dirt road, a hike in.
The woods filled with elk.
A bull so close
we pretended not to see,
but drank him with a quick thirst:
tall as rafters in a church,
his rack rattling the branches,
his thick neck reaching for leaves
beginning to color.
We walked a sudden rise to the clearing.
My heart clattered,
can’t you hear it?
The lugs on my boots gripped the ground.
You stood at the brink,
legs apart framing the gaping hole.
With extended hand
you invited meto join.
No. No.
I tried to look around.
Rock walls surged. The sun cast its shadow,
vivid rust and gold,
timid pinks and greens.
I stared, locked on to those canyons.
I imagined ancients,
squat, not airy, closer to the ground,
standing easy on the brinks.
My eyes, emboldened,
scanned eons down.
I found the river, a scratchy line.
