In the narrows we speak in hushed voices,
if we speak at all.
We follow the canyon’s contours
east, south, west, north,
in solid shade or white blaze
or light reflected once, twice
so that the very air burns crimson
and we burn too.
The wall is smooth, smooth, smooth
where the stream has buffed it,
or notched where rocks have pummeled it
in times of flood.
We run our palms along it.
We glide upon the broad backs of boulders
or crunch through gravel,
the sound a thunder in our ears.
Our whispers pool in the recesses
where the walls are undercut,
and evaporate.
We speak less, then not at all.
There is nothing we have to say.
We follow our feet
through curves and straits,
in and out the buttresses and bays.
Ah, my sweet wren! Cast your song
upon us like a silver thread,
guiding, goading us
ever deeper
to whatever confluence awaits.
Poet, essayist, and inveterate hiker Rick Kempa is founding editor of the journal Deep Wild: Writing from the Backcountry (deepwildjournal.com). He has edited two anthologies about the Grand Canyon, ON FOOT: Grand Canyon Backpacking Stories (Vishnu Temple Press 2014) and, with Peter Anderson, GOING DOWN GRAND: Poems from the Canyon (Lithic Press 2015). Rick served as Grand Canyon Artist in Residence at the South Rim in July 2010 and the North Rim in June of 2013. rickkempa.com
Featured image by Rick Kempa
