The sea battle had not happened yet, but unlike Aristotle
I had been raised in a universe of probabilities, comfortable
With being precisely uncertain about what could happen next.
I knew what could, should and would happen next. I'd had
A ripping nightmare in the windy, moonlit tent about it,
But it hadn't happened yet, not yet, not yet, not yet. Soon,
Surely, but not yet. Sand blew into my mouth as we played
All afternoon in the canyon, leaves whipped up like flocks of goldfinches
Darting about the heavy-lidded red sandstone walls. A Monument
Ranger, sporting a utility belt worthy of the Batman, taser, pistol,
Flashlight, work knife, pulled in to make sure I had no thought
Of starting a fire in the hearth whose ashes swirled about our feet,
Then meandered onto mortality, led by the muse of natural beauty:
"You're here at the best time of year, though. Sometimes
I almost drive off the cliff road myself because it's so beautiful
In here, with the colors and all. Surprisingly few people do
Go off the road, though, and most of them have survived. That's the way
Life is, isn't it? Somebody drives off a rock wall and surprises
You by being alive, while some other guy rolls his truck
In two inches of water in a ditch and drowns. Well,
Enjoy your day! Good to see you using your public lands!"
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