Hiking the Mountains of Moab

Grand Junction, Colorado

A woman alone in the desert, 
a familiar fear, brush away cobwebs of what if.  
The trail is steep, muscles in my legs
begin to ache: I am walking, working, climbing.

Without warning, a loud sound: large rocks falling, 
a change in the weather, sleeping boulders grinding together? 
I cannot name it: cannot quell the urge
to label it, to claim it. 

The path curves and slivers, tiny wild flowers 
nestle in rock crevices, fuchsia and white, 
deep red, blood orange.  I pretend the palette of petals 
relieves the tightness in my chest.

I continue to climb: in my mind I am turning 
back, in my heart I am moving forward to find 
the fossilized plants, discover the dinosaur bones,
peer into pits where archaeologists labored.

A large lizard darts across my path, the tightness
in my chest moves down my legs. Ascending
onto a flat rock, the lizard ignores my presence, 
pink tongue licks the air.

Colors pull me closer: skin glistening, bright turquoise 
and pure yellow, neck encircled in black, 
head crowned in gold: my heart pounds, 
the lizard’s belly moves rhythmically 
in-out, in-out.

The lizard’s breathing,
my own breathing, 
a quickening of awe: 
Baruch atah...

From Blood Lines, Kelsay Books, forthcoming 2022