A quiet canyon

A quiet canyon,
A dry river bed,
A dusty existence.

Dusk gathers,
Like grey blue sheets of flannel,
Falling into the canyon,
And filling it from every direction.

A wind roars down from the prairie above,
It stumbles into the canyon,
It swirls around,
And the canyon begins to sing.

The wind moves the darkened air,
It whistles in the crevices,
And howls in the dry and lonely space.

It finds it's way out,
And all is quiet again.

Stars appear,
So very far above the prairie,
And farther still from the canyon floor.

Night blackens,
Blacker in the canyon,
Then anywhere above.

Ancient rocks begin to cool,
And sleep again.


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