The park was as close to looking ugly as it gets,
The pallid grey winter day not even threatening,
Just exhausted, too tired to be darkly grey,
The old snow now rag-tag, the waterfalls gone,
The cottonwoods barren, the brown grasses matted.
The ranger at the gate asked me how I was,
And when I replied "not bad," protested.
"'Not bad'!? How can you only be not bad?
You're in Acadia!" Then she realized her mistake
And flushed. "Oops, I mean Zion." I smiled.
"I'm guessing your last park posting was Acadia,"
I suggested. She chortled. "Nine years!" Then
Looked a bit nostalgic as I drove on through.
Inside, I was surprised that even on this day,
Homely, cold, the holidays all finally behind us,
The parking lots at Weeping Rock and Sinawava
Were full. I felt a gust of snobbish pity then
For the tourists whose only day here was this day,
When I had seen the great cliffs and formations
In all weathers, snowstorms and thunderstorms,
Sweltering heat, delicate late-winter days already spring
On the canyon floors, sweet dampness in the air,
Entire palettes of pale greens dotting every branch,
Autumn spectacles of colors alchemists schemed to create,
Golds and bronzes, salamandrine fires. This vortex
Of visitors, falling rocks, and transformations, this resurrection
Of condors and bighorns, this protection, this oversight,
This Acadia of its own kind, however overrun, I saw it.
I wanted to call back to the ranger, shout she'd been right.
I drove higher, into the almost supernatural, dovish grey light.
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