(a reverse climb)

Deep within the spruce and fir,

I make my camp along the North Rim,

but before I eat my supper, I walk

over to the nighttime edge of the

Grand Canyon to peer three or four

thousand feet down to see a tiny

flickering campfire way below that

will lure me down very early the next

day from a chilly forty degrees into

heat of mid-summer and then some—

from Canadian forest to Mexican

desert with shoulder-high prickly pears

and Spanish bayonets, but I return to

find a perch above the cooling spray

of Ribbon Falls where I can drink

my fill and continue to climb back up

into welcoming pearly thunderheads;

however, I lose my energy far too

fast with barely enough tepid water

until a sudden shower of hailstones

coats the ground allowing me to eat

the pellets of ice to moisten my mouth

and spirit until I stand once again on the

rim and stare into all that canyon space.