We come as passing visitors on the rimrock of this vast abyss,
awed by ancient desert rocks with ever-changing hues.
We marvel at these stones laid down in tepid seas
before the dawn bird flew,
grandeur timeless, yet so transient.
A raven races up from the canyon with joyful croak,
like a goblin fresh on vacation from his work in Hell.
He arcs above, then plunges deep into the chasm
with wings folded in mock suicide.
At very last he pulls aside to ride the wind.
He soars and dives and soars again with practiced recklessness,
exulting in his mastery of space and gravity.
He jeers at us earthbound people.
The raven neither knows nor cares
for ages past nor yet to come,
nor for the beauty of such majesty.
He soars and clowns just for today
in his playground and home.