I cannot find it in me to write a poem about that weekend: The sun setting my arrival in Grand Junction, the virga gray over Grand Mesa lit by drifting rays, and the splinter of light slicing a bit of rainbow.
It is beyond me to compose the desert; all her reds and golds bowled by Books, and Monuments, and Grand Mesa. How does one define Grand Mesa? Evergreens and volcanic rock skirt a hundred lakes and aspen groves applaud the wind that conducts afternoon lightning shows, thunder echoed in their clap.
How Saturday night, when the tent was pitched next to a single, white columbine, the rain came cold, and we escaped the downpour by sitting in the cab of the truck sipping Knob Creek and talking through the chatter of rain, then hail, then rain punctuated by booming expiation. And how afterward, when the fire was blazing down to cooking coals, we filled time drunk and zipped away.
How does one compose this beautiful? I cannot give you a Sunday night storm approaching from the east as the sun sets behind us in the west. The awe of sitting in the Colorado National Monument, under a shelter overlooking Book Cliffs, watching rainbows rise from the valley where Independence Monument stands red and resolute in the dusk of day. The lightning cutting caliginous curtains while swells of thunder roll up the valley and wash over us. I cannot put the chill of Colorado summer rain against your skin or impress upon you the icy drops that soak your hair and trickle down your face.
If I could write it, perhaps you would understand the storm-spilled tears and perchance forgive the heart that could not come back.
