Musings by Taylor Creek
The red mountains,
Giant monoliths of Navajo and Dakota sandstone,
Tower at impossible heights,
Sheer cliffs dropping off for hundreds of feet.
Nothing can grow up there.
Only here, on the banks of Taylor Creek,
Can I see the trees –
Juniper, cottonwood, quaking aspen, piñon pine–
That have sheltered the life of the canyon
For thousands of years.
The first ones hunted and gathered,
The second ones planted and built their pueblos,
The third ones settled and named the place Kolob – close to God.
I am here now, alone in the brilliant sunlight,
And when I am gone someone else will take my place.
Hopefully they will worship this place as I do.
As I listen to the water falling over itself –
Where does it come from, this eternal spring? –
I feel that this could have been the place
Where Eve took the apple and life began.
Kolob means “close to God,”
And nowhere do I feel closer to him
Than here.
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