SKYHARBOR
Dimension means nothing to the senses, and all we are left with is a troubled sense of immensity.
Outside the North Rim Lodge where the telephones connect, people strolled by with their water bottles and maps. They bought coffee and called to their children. A man in tight jeans and beads played a guitar and sang off key.
I sat on the curb and talked to the people back home in Vermont: my sister, my brother, the doctor in the ER. To my mother one last time.
The canyon eroded behind me while my husband cancelled the train and called Southwest.
I sat on my pack on the pavement, while he returned the rental car. Through the gray noise, exhaust, confusion of taxi and talk, one pigeon bobbed, tipped between luggages and wheels, one pink foot in front of the other, picking scraps and crumbs.
Sun rise over the Grand Canyon. The arch of Angel’s Window. A troubled sense of immensity. The colors of Vishnu’s Temple. The green thread of river a mile below my boots. Pines touched and healed by fire. The scent of sagebrush. Hopi Radio news.
I watched the little pigeon dodge the river of traffic, stepping and pecking, until she flew away.