The thunder and wind are acting strange this evening. The crickets are serenading. I’m standing there are the mesa edge watching the sun scatter its rays through gaps in the clouds. The desert becomes glowing red, and the rain sparkles through the sun’s rays, soaking the monstrous cottonwoods below, bathing them in a deep yellow light. All is quiet, except the wind, thunder, birds, and crickets. I watch the lightning strike the desert back and forth in the mystery of the moment, randomly hurling itself out of dark thunderheads that engulf the desert in shadow.
These canyons are my home, my soul. Mysteries are flowing down unknown channels. The Sky Father is happy this evening, and the sun knows I’m here waiting. And this world has awakened. It is so awesome to hear her voice, and nothing can surpass the moment. The beauty is forever strong, and my heart is beating. There are creatures that creep in unknown places, and the shade lurks in the trees. It’s a strange thing with a personality, looking at me with invisible eyes. It’s laughing hard and wailing, but what does it mean?
There are so many sounds, so many different birds singing in the cottonwoods and the creek below is busy singing, and the rain splashes on the rocks like gravy. A roaring flash-flood goes rampaging somewhere in the abyss of shady wasteland, and somewhere, somebody’s footprints have never been found. Their body lays undisturbed like a footprint on the moon; dead like a mummy, and buried somewhere deep.
The clouds begin to break slowly, then pass over the mountains to the north. The thunder goes with them. The sun sets it’s foot on the horizon, then slowly creeps below. I watch the sky ignite into crimson colors, then fading to purple, and then deep maroon. I waited until the last sliver of ancient sun departed, and stood there till every color came to an end. Then I awoke from the pleasant dream.
The plateau country was radiating, and the raven’s had vanished to the alcoves where their young awaited. I was beneath an alcove myself, near some petroglyphs that I had photographed. Their gnarly shapes and twisted bodies were perplexing; Little figures with antennas dancing across the rock-face. Their strange grip on my spirit was marvelous and erratic. They healed that uncanny darkness within. What are these peculiar creatures, painted and etched in sandstone canyons? They invade my head with their shadows at night, and glow like phantoms.
The entrance to the that twisted canyon country was covered in a dream, but I can still feel its shadow on the breeze that slithers like a snake down old mountains, and across vast landscapes. It reminds me of whirlwinds, and dust devils, and how they turn so mysteriously. I am grateful that the wind is in me, that I may breathe!