High Desert Journal: Panamint Range, Death Valley

Panamint Range, Death Valley

Poetry

by Dave Seter | 0 Comments

Cumulus clouds of hard blue edge snag on high tabletops of rock, unravel. Water-poor, they won't travel farther, won't baptize tourists stranded on the valley floor in a broken-down VW bus. The valley's little more than a bowl of sand radiating heat even as the sun sets. We pray for a savior to repair our broken radiator. Nothing else to do, we watch the sky, the clouds. Because of them the peak's unsure, it cultivates a hide-and-seek relationship. Looking up, even with both feet planted on the ground, it's hard not to fall dizzy. Trick of clouds, motion and light, everything seems to rise, but tectonically speaking, this valley's a graben. It drops imperceptibly toward earth's core, but takes us along minutely, measurably, farther from heaven.

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