After the thunder rumbled away
the rainbow called us out
from under the red rock overhang.
We stood, small, between long flat walls
of ochre sandstone rising on either side
like ruins in the Valley of the Kings.
On the slickrock canyon floor, barely wet,
were pockets of red sand, swept into crevices
as if by some primal tide, now pebbled by raindrops.
New was the sharp green scent of sage
that follows rain—and the gurgle
of a small stream somewhere.
There it was, up on the right, a tiny rivulet
spilling over a flat rock into a pool
and going nowhere. But then
more runoff from a small side canyon
collected itself, splashed down
into the tiny pool, spilled over
and began its downhill trip.
The rivulet sprinted forward
by turns lapping and leaping
split over a chunk of rock, raced
up a short slight incline and over
a new stone edge onto our canyon floor
heading down by several paths
shining the ancient slickrock
on the way to its Pacific destiny.
We watched the traveling crest
bound oceanward--watched
as if present at the creation of the world.
Mary Kay Schoen’s verse has appeared in America Magazine; Weaving the Terrain (Dos Gatos Press), an anthology of Southwestern poetry; and several online poetry journals. For gainful employment she has taught high school in Ghana and preschool in Virginia and published numerous feature articles in the Washington Post and health and education periodicals.
Featured image: Butler Wash Bridge by U.S. Geological Survey CC BY 2.0
