Squirrel

Above Moab, at 10,000 feet,

Peace hovered

High in the warm, dry air.

Without a care,

I floated like a solitary hawk.

To the west, in the morning mist

Red, brown canyons stretched

In never-ending glory.

Then, like a loose stone, I rolled

Down the La Sal slopes.

My hopes were high

As spring brightened man, beast, and earth.

It was a glorious birth

As contented robins sang

And the rustic hills rang

With their music.