Monday, August 20, 2012



I found this overly adjective-fied sestina I wrote about my time at Canyonlands, and stargazing on top of Whale Rock late at night.

Also, I will be helping out with two blogs for school. The Office of Sustainability at the U of U: http://sustainableutah.wordpress.com/2012/01/26/hello-world/

and the Colorado Plateau chapter of IDA: http://cpida.wordpress.com/stars-over-slickrock/

So look out for some cool stuff. 

We three are ruthless on the ascending hunt
 Dragging blistered feet upwards towards the glow
 and towards the place where full merges with empty
 where the hollow air seethes as the wind whips.
 Up here long-gone voices echo and hiss,
 at the horizon in the desert, where death fades to life.

 Hiking in the yawning dark is lively –
 each step and groping hand is a hunt
 for stability amongst the hissing
 ghosts of prickly pear and the glowing
 evening primrose.  Eyes gape and lashes whip
 through sand blasts, but nerves love the emptiness.

 This is the steep section, where fear empties
 and muscles rumble like a drowsy train brought to life.
 The “strenuous” climb, where hearts whip
 in time with the scattering scorpions, silently hunting.
 Here is the vertical boulder, that glows
 as it stretches and touches the heavens with a hiss.

 A faded midget rattler hiss-hisses
 as it coils through juniper branches now dead and empty,
 as if to say, “Yes, starlight burns, but the glow
 of these rocks cools. Savior of life.”
 We do not understand, but we are hunters
 of gods and spirits, and our pulses speed their whips.

 To climb this rock we must ignore the whip
 of the red rock breeze, the tempting hiss
 of the coiled rattler and slow our hunting
 to push over the final crest.  The empty
 summit is silent, nothing lives
 here but and loneliness and the stars that glow.

 But even as we watch and breathe the glowing sky
 our rocky ground cools and wind whips
 at our feet like a stream, a bed come to life.
 So we lay down, cradled under hissing
 clouds that weaken into empty space.
 Above, Scorpio crawls across the sky, hunting.

We whisper that Orion will always hunt, and that summer will change the sky.
But it is here in this constant cool space that we belong, whipped
back to the Earth with a sweet hiss.  Here we are grounded, and radiantly alive.





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