Grand Falls
A little attempt at prose poetry
I sit next to you in this blue hotel room daydreaming of a spontaneous trip back in Arizona — a net cast into the gaping sky. We tumbled into the car with hasty daypacks and sped towards the painted desert in Navajo nation until buildings leveled leaving an endless sand field, even the comfort of paved road dropping off, daring tires to kick up dirt which left us in a perpetual dust cloud. And it was just me and you roaming in the SUV, swallowed by defeaning desolance, being our complete selves the way we can when it's just us. We aimed for the remote waterfall, higher than Niagara, playfully called "chocolate falls" for its murky spill of silt-stained water. In spring tarnished snowmelt is surrendered from the mountains, tumbling over the steep drop of this volcanic canyon. I wanted to feel the potent hum of water move through my body, but when we finally arrived after a long drive through rough terrain we were met with silence. Basalt rock stood bare and bashful in the sun; the slightest trace showed water ever graced this place. I was still stunned by the echoing enormity here, so far removed from the daily page turn of life. I heard they closed this place to visitors since then. Unfortunately, too many non-natives came and did not respect this sacred site, took for granted the honor of watching this waiting flower bloom like an offering, left trash like scars blemishing a silken face. I will never know the grandfather voice pushed from the throat of these falls — only the way it emptied that day, and how the message was just as resounding.
Disclaimer: Grand Falls in Arizona is on Navajo nation land and is no longer open to the public. Attempting a trip there now is trespassing and highly disrespectful. My husband and I did this trip when it was still open to the public, along with other iconic landmarks and monuments that allow visitors.
Thank you so much for reading. For some reason I've been writing a lot about the years I spent living in the desert of Arizona recently. It's interesting how sometimes a poem sits waiting in us, marinating until just the right moment to emerge in all its flavor.