I’m in this canyon unbelievably alone. Not lonely though. Loneliness is being lost in a role with no place left to play it. But I have no role to play. Not even that of a poet. There’s not a poem in the sky today.
Red sandstone walls rise above me in a silence that gives lie to the name given to this place in Arches: Park Avenue (we even need to have the landscape play some role). It’s about as far away from any city, never mind Manhattan, that you can get without going to the wilderness itself. A lizard scampers by in complete agreement.
A few people now are wandering in, so I walk to a side canyon. A box canyon: it has that cinematic western feel. But there are no cowboys here. There are no Indians either. There’s only the Law of Spirit, actually an outlaw in these later scientific days, waiting to strike you like a diamondback rattlesnake.