Anxious, Hushed Things

He tried to find a cabin with a swing,
Views out to the Cedar Breaks,
Rocks and trees, rocks and trees,
That was the idea. All night, rain
Dented the tin cabin roof.
In the morning he built a fire
And read to his daughter
Until she got bored with storybooks.

By afternoon it was time to move,
For no good reason but scenery.
They drove to where the rugged trail
Crossed through a paved overlook.
Oversized people and cameras
Rotated through the parking lot,
Out to look down on the spires
Of red and white rock, sliding
Just above the tips of the trees,
Those anxious, hushed things.

His wife hiked their daughter
On her back through the mud,
Vanishing toward an alpine pond.
He waited, watching. Wind lifted
And combed fog out of the snarls
Of hoodoos and pines. He waited.
Voices, lowered but distinct,
Floated over the edge of the rim.

Fog's closing back in. Is it?
It's a lot prettier when it's got
A full sun on it.  Ah, here comes
Some sun. But it's not shining right
Down in there yet.  And it probably
Won't, either. That layer's basically
Gone. Quite a ways over that way,
See, a bird of some kind, greenish,
With a greenish tinge to it.
I'm always afraid of missing
A better view down the road.
If God made landscape any prettier,
He's keeping it to Himself.
When is sunset? Somewhere, there
Must be those, you know, these things.