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!