A number of years ago I lived on a canyon rim in the Panhandle of Texas, a side canyon to Palo Duro Canyon, the second largest canyon in the country. I wrote this poem when I lived there.
The canyon edge looms out my bedroom windows,
pale adobe, stark.
Fall to death or serious injury.
I will not fall; I love living on the edge.
Rain brings a one hundred foot deluge,
roar of water, red adobe, cascading, screaming.
Someone said my house is pink; it is not pink.
Color of canyon, worldwide color,
Moroccan, Pueblo, Saudi, Mali, Navaho, Timbuktu,
desert alive and lovely.
Everywhere.
Three bucks watch me through my bedroom windows.
They see me move; they stare.
Isabella stands, rigid, watching…what?
I kneel to her level, follow her eyes.
Bobcat casually climbs the canyon wall, impervious.
He marks the juniper tree, walks a deer path,
disappears, secretive, rarely seen.
The huge hoot owl’s voice echoes down the canyon,
drifting into my dreams.
A young roadrunner calls, scratchy voice,
running across the patio–on the edge.
In spring the mocking bird sings all night,
“This is my territory.”
I sing all year, full of joy!














