In The Canyon

We wandered along the banks of the great Snake River, peering over canyon rims as the water ran teal to deep indigo in a shadowy turn, and out of sight.  

The sun sank until we were eye-to-eye with it’s golden gaze. We tucked the ‘last to leave’ rabbit brush blooms in hat bands and shirt pockets as bird dogs scoured the base of the sage for a mouse or two who live on the wild side of the Snake River Plains. Maybe this is where Fievel’s family resides?

Our slick bottom boots gave way as we scrambled over rocks that jutted enticingly from the edge, with nothing but the heavens above and water below to hold us in place. 

We leaned back, faces toward a bluebird sky, to give that extra oomph to our whoops and hollers, fingers crossed that the Snake River would reply. And she did, mimicking our voices with startling clarity, a boomerang of surprise each and every time. 

On a remarkably still November evening, this lonesome landscape, teeming with hidden life, lifted our hearts and we felt known and seen indeed. The sustaining pedal of the prairie piano still vibrates with the notes of our laughter lingering on the fall breeze.