Slickrock

There are differing qualities of rock:
some hard, some porous.
If you doubt, take it up with the sand.
Sand is the hand
that, employed by the wind,
does the shaping.

Sand grinds everything down,
whatever gets in its way.
It may be bone,
but more often is simply rock.
Anywhere you walk
in the desert, you walk on sand.

Cliffs are broken, furrowed out into arches
and to tall thin fins.
Tough cactus, rabbit brush, desert ash,
and a ragged stand
of cottonwood in dry washes
represent plants here.

Horned owls are a voice in the night,
calling out, responding.
Ravens and jays disrupt the day,
their voices harsh,
but the canyon wren’s call refreshes
like a drink of water.

Water is the prime divider
between life and death,
between praise and a faint cry for help.
Wind is just as rough;
itself a portable sandpaper,
not one single grain with mercy.

Still, the beauty of this land is soul-catching
and exceeding rare,
found nowhere else in the world;
is, itself, a land
where diversity is bottled and protected
first by heat, then, cold.